Steel for Humans
by Era-Age
Summary: She's a librarian, a lover of all-things fabled and forgotten. Most importantly, she can read the language. His ancestry is something akin to a fairy tale, a make-believe culture that has beguiled raiders, treasure hunters, and thieves alike. But any treasure, any semblance of evidence proving his bloodline, is meant only for him. A darker AU based on Indiana Jones and The Mummy.
1. Karma with a Capital K

It wasn't the leader of the Phantom mercenaries who scared her the most.

Her cell had been cramped before half of its ceiling collapsed in the middle of the night—or perhaps it had been in the middle of the day. She had, by some god's graces, been sleeping in the other corner of the cell when that awful noise reached her ears—worse than fingernails grating against a chalkboard. Like a giant, metallic, earthen yawn, slabs of the ceiling had caved in, much like how a roof does under relentless rainstorms, and then there was a _creak, groan, hiss,_ as half of the foundation of the ceiling jutted like protruding bones.

She had been jolted awake by those terrible sounds. Slumped over to the side, her head propped up by her largest tome and her bum numb from the unforgiving ground, all she could do while her hell turned _worse_ was scuttle further into her corner— _her_ corner, since it was the only one the shackles around her wrists and ankles permitted her to reach—and wait.

Wait for the dust to settle, wait for the powder of concrete, metal, and rock to suffocate her, wait for the muffled sounds of shouts and rushed footfalls to fade away as her lungs filled and filled with—

Something fumbled with her wrists and ankles, and the pressing weight of the shackles released. Oh, Mavis be blessed and glorious; this was it. She was weightless, she was flying and falling and tumbling all at once, and she was _free._ She had always been curious about that white light every fleeting soul saw before they found their eternal peace: how bright was it? did it fade in gradually, or was it a sudden burst? was it really white?

Hers began as white, and then it stripped to a peachy color, then orange, and then tan.

Weight on her chest— _but why?—_ and slender, gentle yet firm, fingers prying her mouth open. For a moment, or maybe an hour, her mind disconnected from her body. She was in a dark place, a place where nothing could touch her, and the shouts and yells and even the smells of the ruin were muffled, as if she was underwater.

And she couldn't breathe. It should have scared her; she should have been clawing and fighting for her lungs to fill with air, but no. She just fell further, finding comfort in the dark waters of her fading mind. This was alright; she could stay like this, so long as her senses stayed numb. It was alright, she convinced herself, she could settle with this nothingness surrounding her.

Then pain. Flares racing up her ribcage, spiriting her away from that safe place, that dark place. The pressure on her sternum increased, demanding that she jolt and flinch and gasp and _breathe._

She did. Mouth flying open, tongue darting around in her mouth, she croaked and gulped and fought for that precious air. Her throat burned, the humid and stagnant air of the ruins scorching through her body, and her hands tore at the collar of her stained button-down in a frantic attempt for more of that burning, life-giving air.

Desierto was a country aptly named, but down here, in what she suspected was an ancient, long-forgotten kingdom, the air was positively scalding.

Her croaks dimmed to labored panting. Her coughs and gulps were almost enough to drown out the angry mercenaries yelling and scurrying about, but not quite. She hadn't opened her eyes since she awoke, she realized, and it wasn't until she felt the lip of a canteen press against her bottom lip that she peeked one eye open.

How she regretted it! The dust on her eyelashes made her eye sting and water enough to leave streaks down her sooty cheeks. She blinked furiously, hating herself for showing such a display in front of these people, for that was what they were: despite how they treated her, despite their taunts and abuse, despite the fact that they had _stolen her and her very way of life,_ they were still people.

Through the haze of her stinging eyes, she saw a face peering at hers. Wide, ocean-blue eyes stared into the depths of her hazel ones. A concerned line creased in this woman's brow. Those cool fingers smoothed her hair away from the canteen.

"Wastin' water on that one, Juvia!" a gruff voice barked. The woman, Juvia, didn't bat an eye while she supported the prisoner's head. She helped their captive wrap her fingers around the canteen, and when she was certain she would not drop it, Juvia lowered her hand. A snort from the man, and then, "She thirsty, then keep her mouth open. I got somethin' for her, alright—"

Without looking away from their captive, Juvia's palm latched onto the man, right in between his legs, and squeezed. Gasping, he shook and raised his arms.

"It would be most appreciated," Juvia said coolly, "if Boze did not speak to Juvia or their guest in such a manner." Her knuckles tightened, and a soprano shrill erupted from Boze's gaping mouth. She released him when his screech pitched up an octave. Ignoring his swears and staggering, Juvia lowered the prisoner's head to the ground and asked in a voice much too concerned, "Are you alright, miss?"

The captive's eyes swept to hers. She squinted her hazel eyes, she furrowed her brow, and the corner of her mouth turned downward. How in Mavis's name was she to answer such a question?

Juvia, however, nodded, apparently finding some satisfactory response, and brushed a lock of oily hair from the captive's brow. Juvia's own appearance was not much better than the captive's; the still, humid air of the ruin had her cheeks and brow flushed, her hair frizzing at the crown of her head, the curled ends of her hair in tangles, and her nose and upper lip shining with sweat. Unlike the captive, though, Juvia was not nearly skin and bones.

Her wrists and ankles weren't rubbed raw, either.

"Well, shit," Boze grumbled. He kept more than an arm's length away from Juvia while he watched his comrades scramble about the ruined cell. His hands covered his groin after Juvia flicked her gaze to him. "That was the only place we could keep 'er. The hell we gonna put her now? Not like we cleared the lower levels of the ruin or anything," he snorted.

A moment passed. Boze still muttered, rotating between hoisting his hands on his hips and scratching the back of his head, and edged away from his comrade. Juvia remained, a silent sentinel, until quiet footsteps reached her ears. Capping the canteen, she tucked it into her coat where it was out of sight. She stood, her every movement fluid and precise, and inclined her head.

"Master Jose," she said. The mercenaries still bickering and scurrying about halted all sound and stood on either side of the hall. Boze did his best to straighten his spine and kept his eyes to the cracked, ancient floor.

Upon hearing those dreaded words, the captive squeezed her eyes shut.

Master Jose, tailed several paces behind by four other mercenaries, took his time descending the staircase to their level of the ruin as if its halls were crafted just for him. The passage was lit by only a handful of dim torches. The floor was uneven with several jutting slabs and outcroppings of rock, and the walls were twisted with vines and moss. In every corner, a spider web, and in every hidden nook and cranny, a deathtrap. It was a sorry sight, this ruin.

It wasn't the ruin that terrified the captive; she had been in ancient crypts before. It wasn't the smell, the heat, or the knowledge that the ceiling could crush them at any time and place. It wasn't even Master Jose and his carved staff ending in a hideous, stretched mouth resembling the horrific specter after which his mercenaries were so aptly named—that staff tapped against the floor in time with his footsteps, and every tap brought him closer.

No. Master Jose did not frighten her. It was the man at his elbow who made her wish that she had been chained to the opposite wall of her cell.

She bit her lip and dug her grimy fingers into the floor. This man, Master Jose's iron-fisted _pet,_ somehow absorbed shadow itself and wore the darkness like a second skin. He angled himself away from the torches, and the light bended around him.

"Master Jose," Juvia repeated. The Phantom leader stopped only a few feet away. With his coat pushed back from his hip, his revolver glinted in the firelight to remind his men who commanded them. He raised a sleek brow at the scene before him: his mercenaries standing at attention, Boze avoiding all eye contact, and the plume of dust still rising from the collapsed cell. Master Jose appraised Juvia for a moment, and then a revealing grin slithered on his mouth.

"Juvia, my dear." The captive cringed. His voice was like curdled milk mixed with venom. "Again, your speed and strength have saved the day." He tilted Juvia's chin. "Even though," he mused, his voice curling into a sneer, "you were not the one assigned to her cell." He patted her shoulder, giving her permission to nod in acceptance of the praise, and then focused on Boze.

Boze had a darker complexion, one that was able to mask the effects of the humidity. His cheeks flushed for other reasons, and the purple, tattered scarf wrapped around his head did nothing to keep the sweat from dripping down his temples and nose. Boze stared at his boots and clenched his sweaty palms into fists.

Their prisoner managed to open an eye—her _good_ eye, since the other was still coated in dust—and tried to take in her surroundings. From where Jose stood, she could only see his boots, but behind him, just off to the side, she could see the full profile of _him,_ Jose's iron pet. Her heart flew into her throat when his red, reptilian eyes were trained on her. The rivets lining his brows were pulled into a frown, causing dark lines to form beneath his eyes and on either side of the pierced bridge of his nose.

He was studying her, she realized; he was looking at her like she was an unexpected result of an experiment. His mouth wasn't pulled into a sneer or smirk; only his eyes betrayed his emotions. What she wanted was for those eyes to _look away_ so that she could find air again. He blinked when Jose hissed something—an order—and his expression twisted so that his eyes blazed in morbid anticipation and his sharp canines gleamed. With his eyes trained forward, she could breathe again, and she took in a shuddering gulp. She didn't know why—she was free of his iron-red gaze—but her eye flicked once more to him.

His steps were silent as he walked by her. His face was partially hidden by shadows and his long, tangled hair that was blacker than midnight, but he met her wandering eye.

What she saw, oh Mavis what she saw, was a truth that she knew he did not want anyone to see. He looked at her briefly, like he never meant to, and then from the corner of his eye, looked back at Jose. It was subtle, but just the crinkling of his temple spoke volumes of where his true allegiance lay.

Boze's shallow explanations went unheard— _how was I supposed to know the ceiling would come down? Damn broad didn't even make a peep! I-I just had to take a piss—_ and Jose's iron prize continued to stalk forward. The sounds of nasal bones cracking and Boze's screech resounded in the dimly lit hallway, followed by the jerking thud of a knee slamming into his gut.

Jose purred his praise and admired his pet's work for a moment. The captive didn't see it, as her good eye was squeezed shut, but she felt it: bony fingers threaded through her greasy hair, gripped, and _pulled—_

She shouted from the heat searing across her scalp and bit her lip to keep quiet. Hearing the Phantom leader chuckle in amusement, she bit down hard enough to draw blood. His elbow jerked forward, and she stumbled, tripping on her own calloused, bare feet, into two steadying arms.

 _Her name is Juvia._

She thought it was over for now, but the heat on her scalp stabbed into a molten bolt. Gasping, her scream lodged in her throat when her blood rushed through her skull and pounded in her ears.

Jose smoothed the torn pieces of her hair and mused, "My, my. An unusual color, this is, just like my dear Juvia's." The corner of his mouth turned up, and one eye squinted in fascination. He twisted the hair around his index finger. "Juvia," he said, and upon hearing the command in his voice, she nodded. "Be a dear and find somewhere for our guest to stay. We want our _dear_ Miss McGarden to be comfortable now, don't we?"

Inclining her head again, Juvia escorted the prisoner down the hall, pulling her close so that she supported most of her meager weight. Her skull pulsing and screaming after every slight bob of her head, the prisoner ground her teeth together and choked back a sob. She hobbled alongside this Juvia, knowing that the mercenary was giving her plenty of time to move at her own pace.

Behind her, Jose was giving orders for his men to recover any surviving tomes in the ruined cell; he was no longer interested in his captive or pet. Miss McGarden knew she had to move passed _him,_ and her heart constricted in its cage when she felt the weight of those horrible red eyes on her again, burning her more than her abused scalp.

Oh, no indeed: it was not the leader of the Phantom mercenaries who scared her so.

* * *

Juvia stopped in a chamber with a large, arched ceiling. Rusted chandeliers hung from the metal buttresses, their candles having been unlit for centuries. The majority of the room was bathed in muted oranges and blues, as if the dust and cobwebs drowned out all vibrancy. Some of the pillars in the room were either collapsed or cracked, and the iron pews were red with rust. The pews that survived the ages were arranged in shapes resembling horseshoes, and there were two curved staircases—one having been rendered unnavigable due to pillars breaking most of the steps—leading to a dais at the far end of the room. Torn tapestries were tacked to the walls and ceiling, and behind the dais on an archway was a banner that stretched from either side of the room, but whatever insignia it used to detail was eaten away by time and, presumably, fire.

Miss McGarden knew where they were—this _had_ to be the place, no matter what her colleagues may have said to her if they knew where she was. Her ancient texts described this antechamber thoroughly. This ruin was the former capital city Karma of the fabled Ferroc, the ruling kingdom before borders were drawn to create what was modernly known as Desierto. Every time she had pored over the tome describing Karma, she could feel the pride the author must have felt when writing about his beloved home.

Karma was the capital, a precious metal in its own right. But what was far more stunning was the fact that Karma was the capital of the Kingdom of Ferroc, a civilization thought to be a myth.

But Miss McGarden knew better, even if those stuffy scholars back at the museum would have sighed and rolled their eyes at her.

This antechamber where Juvia brought her used to be a hub for all inhabitants of the capital, back when spiders and rats and roaches didn't constitute the total population. The chandeliers would have been lit, giving the room a warm glow. Vendors would have been stationed in the corners, selling light refreshments, and the citizens would have been buzzing about, greeting friends and neighbors and hearing the latest news from the crier at his podium.

For the mercenaries, though, this was just a place to set up camp.

Juvia placed her down a handful of meters away from the mercenaries. Miss McGarden grappled against the pillar for support, and Juvia slowly helped rest her head against the concrete. She sighed when she was off her feet, but before she could feel too much relief, the stinging bite of iron against her chafed wrists and ankles reminded her of her circumstances.

"I am sorry, miss," Juvia said in a low voice. The cuffs were not as tight as her other ones, but it was all Miss McGarden could do not to whimper at the feel of the unforgiving metal. Juvia paused, contemplating whether or not to chain her shackles around the pillar. Ultimately, she decided against it, and nodded. "Rest now." Leaving, Juvia walked back to the hall, no doubt to report to her master. It was then that Miss McGarden noticed the belt holding sleek, lethal stilettos wrapped around her waist. At her hip was also a pistol.

Sleep was a sporadic thing and a concept Miss McGarden couldn't comprehend at the time. It could be night, maybe morning or afternoon, but she couldn't tell; they were too far deep in the ruin to enjoy any daylight. Resting against the pillar, she tested opening her other eye, only to wince when it stung and watered. Carefully, she tugged her bandana over her bad eye. The fabric was dirty and coarse, but at least it hid the sight from the mercenaries. She leaned against the pillar, frowning when her back cracked, and pulled her legs toward herself. Slipping her fingers between the cuffs and her ankles, she stroked the sore skin and willed the dull throbbing away.

That was wishful thinking. The raw marks flared, and she hissed and settled with squeezing her dirty toes to ignore the pain. Schooling her breaths, she glanced around the bedrolls to make sure none of the mercenaries saw her. They were too busy murmuring amongst themselves to pay her any mind, thank Mavis, and she sighed in relief. Her breath hitched in her throat when she saw that she was mistaken; one mercenary— _when did he enter the antechamber?—_ had his eyes nailed to her.

 _Him._

He stood on the other side of the room, across from her and with the mercenaries between them. He was why his comrades were so hush-hush; he was sent there by his master to keep order. She shrank back against her pillar, praying that the ground would swallow her whole. Her scalp stung from putting more pressure on it, and she swore she felt a bump forming on the back of her head. Whereas he was leaning in shadow, she was huddled in firelight, and she _hated_ how he could see her every move.

He was watching her rub her sore feet, hands, and head. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. _He_ was the one who had chained her before, who had locked her away in that cursed cell. If he'd chosen the opposite corner to chain her, she'd be dead.

The idea almost made her snort. Almost.

Her thoughts took a dark turn. Was he studying her to find weaknesses? He needn't look for too long. She'd read documentaries about animals being sacrificed to appease higher beings or village leaders, and that was exactly what she felt like: a sacrifice. She just wished that instead of looking at her like _that,_ he'd get on with his cruelty and just, for Mavis's _sake,_ end it.

She was interrupted by someone clearing their throat, and she tore her gaze away from the iron pet to look up at the man next to her. Dried blood coated his nose and chin, and his purple bandana was stained red. Bruises were forming on his nose and jaw. Boze—that was his name, yes. She gasped when he dropped an armful of books in front of her. Scrambling to make sure none of the pages were ruined, she almost didn't hear Boze grumble at her.

"You listenin' to me?" he barked. Her shoulders jumped, and he rolled his eyes and knelt in front of her. He punched his fist next to her ankle, and she scooted as far back as possible. "Master wants to move onto the next level tomorrow, so you're gonna tell us what the hell we should be expectin' past that door," he said, tilting his head to a heavy set of doors just beyond the dais. "You've got until then, pumpkin. Maybe you can keep the roof above you this time, huh?" Boze had hoped to see her eyes widen in fear, but instead, he was met with an angry pout and shaking fists at her sides.

Her brow was pulled into a fierce, determined expression, and he'd be _damned_ but the little chit was asking for a beating, and his thudding nose and bruised ribs were more than enough incentive to dish out a little revenge.

"Fine," she bit out, and immediately set to hunching over her references. She saw Boze's body coil, his elbow pulling back, but he halted his motions. He looked over his shoulder, and judging by the gasp he made, she presumed he noticed his master's pet sulking in the darkness. Gritting his teeth, Boze climbed to his feet and trudged over to his fellow mercenaries, sparing her a few curses along the way.

Miss McGarden chanced looking up from her tomes, her eyes only needing a second to find _his,_ and her stomach twisted. He wasn't looking at her; rather, he was staring Boze down. His gaze was hard enough to pierce through steel, and her imaginative mind pictured Boze's chest erupting in bullet holes.

But Boze had just squatted with his men, and they clanked their flasks together. Calming her raging heartbeat, she nodded and bent over her books.

* * *

She had her notes detailed, now. Worrying her bottom lip, she checked and triple checked the journals, articles, biographies, and history books. Most of what interested her was what Karma used to be like, back when Ferroc was in its golden—rather, steel—age: its main exported goods were ores and weapons, since the surrounding mountains and crags were rich with metals; the different holidays the people celebrated, most in honor of innovation and _how much_ they valued and respected a beautiful, intelligent human mind; and, most importantly, the language.

The autobiographies that had survived the centuries were written in light script. She suspected that time had a hand in fading the ink, but she also had an inkling that the Ferrians, the people of Ferroc, spoke a language typically written with gentle hands. It was odd: she and her captors had ventured past broken forges, pipes, gears, and gizmos, and yet she had large suspicions that despite the skills in metalworking, welding, blacksmithing, and carpentry, the Ferrians were _gentle._

They valued literature, an art that was quickly becoming replaced with science, technology, engineering, and mathematics in this day and age. It was encouraging for her to learn that such paragons of weaponry had silver tongues.

Of course, whenever she had tried to explain this to her colleagues back at the Museum of Antiquities in Oro, the capital of Desierto, she'd gotten quite the laugh from them. She was grasping at straws, the other scholars said, and chasing fairy tales. The owner of the museum and a fellow historian had told her that since nursery rhymes painted the ancient Ferrians as aggressive, and there was no evidence suggesting that the supposed civilization was anything otherwise, it was difficult to prove them as versatile. Any translations she'd done on what she swore were Ferrian texts were brushed aside; the historians had reasoned that a writer's thoughts were one thing, and tangible evidence was another altogether. Even worse, there was always the niggling argument of Ferroc ever existing; no excavation had ever turned up enough evidence to prove that Ferroc was even an ancient civilization.

Until now.

She hadn't realized she'd been smiling, or that the expression felt so odd on her mouth. Idly, she chewed on a thumb nail and murmured to herself. Her eyes glued to the page, she didn't see the pair of boots in front of her.

They shifted a bit, as if the person to whom they belonged was uncertain, and then finally, they nudged against her book. Blinking away the realm of ironworks and steel, she glanced up. Following the boots to the khakis shoved in them, to the belt and bullwhip at the hip, the fingerless gloves, the sleeveless leather vest covering a partially buttoned, collared shirt, the dark shemagh wrapped around his neck, to—

 _Mavis, no._ Once her eyes landed on the first piercing on his chin, she stared at whatever page she'd turn to. She knew how to read the soft script of the Ferrians, but for the life of her, she couldn't understand the page. Her mouth dried, and for long seconds, she forgot how to breathe. From her peripherals, she saw his arm move, and she steeled herself. An image of Boze's bruised, bloody nose flashed through her mind, and for a moment the room started to tip.

Then she righted herself. There was no pain. Inhaling and ignoring her pounding heart, she managed to bring her gaze in front of her.

Bread. He was holding a chunk of bread. Tilting her head, she dared herself to follow his arm up to his face, and there, she had to stop. His head was turned toward the ceiling, his eyes blown wide, and his nostrils flared. A jolt of fear pierced her heart at the thought of yet another collapse, and she peered to see what caught his attention. Frowning when nothing seemed out of the ordinary, she glanced back at him. This was taxing him, she concluded after tilting her head the other way. He was completely aware of his presence, of how his shadow loomed over and swallowed her whole, and yet…

And yet he inched the bread closer to her.

Her lungs screamed at her to make him leave, to make him go back in his dark corner to sulk and be far away from her, but all that came out of her mouth was a croaked, "What is it?" She bit her lip when his eyes darted to hers. Knowing that she'd been caught staring at him, she stared at the piece of bread instead. A whiff from her nose told her that it was indeed time for a meal; the mercenaries were circled around a small fire in the antechamber, and the smell of cooking meat wafted through the chamber. Some of them must have gone back to the surface to hunt. Her traitorous stomach grumbled out a symphony, and she hunched her shoulders.

"Food." His voice reminded her of the times she'd stumble about her room in the middle of the night, and after taking a clumsy step, found something sharp stuck in her foot. His voice was all rough gravel and thick darkness. The curious, albeit damned, part of her brain wondered if he gargled with bolts and nails. "Ya eat it."

"I can't eat that," she said in a whoosh of breath. Then, without her permission, added, "I _know_ what you do with food."

"That right?" She didn't see the corner of his mouth twitch when her stomach grumbled again. "Had me fooled. Ya haven't eaten in two days, short stack."

"I can't eat those either," she stammered. He was quiet, and then she realized he was waiting for something. Her mouth was faster than her brain, and she repeated, quietly, "Short stack?"

She heard the smirk in his next words. "Fresh outta those." This time, she held her tongue. He shifted on his feet. "Either you take it from me, or I force feed you. Yer choice."

She lowered her head, an action that made him purse his lips and frown. She cursed herself for wanting to explain. The iron pet didn't care for excuses; he only wanted his will made true. Maybe it was the scholar in her that urged her to explain. Maybe it was herself, for his eyes burned her with their displeasure. Or maybe it was him and his stubborn resolution that egged her on. "I can't eat bread," she said quietly.

He snorted and moved the bread side to side in front of her. This is what she expected from him: this taunting behavior so common amongst the mercenaries. "Scared you'll lose yer girlish figure?"

"I can't digest it," she said quickly. Her eyes were locked on his, and judging how he looked at her cheeks, she knew he saw her face flushing. "I can't digest it," she said again in a much shakier voice. And it was true: whenever she'd eat bread, her gut would become a twisted, pulling knot within the hour. It was why she was all skin and bones in this ancient city. The mercenaries only gave her stale bread as food, and she'd only nibbled before those horrible cramps, the jabbing pain, the awful, _awful_ misery of intestinal blockage began.

Just the thought of bread made her abdomen tighten in discomfort. Worse than that was the fact that she'd just given the pet a new toy to bat around and destroy.

He looked between her and the bread, and then inclined his head in— _understanding?_ "The wheat?" Another pause, and then, "Ya got an allergy?"

"Sensitivity," she corrected softly. Her cheeks were as red as his eyes, most likely, and she burned holes into her tome. The chains linking her cuffs clinked together while she idly twisted her fingers. She wanted to elaborate; she knew not many people had a sensitivity to wheat, and she'd received her fair share of confused stares after admitting her digestive problem to her friends. "If I eat that—"

"Huh." He lowered his arm. She was taken aback by his tone. He wasn't angry or dubious. No, beneath the gravel was curiosity. It gave her the courage to look at him, and when she did, she wished that courage had died in her previous cell.

His posture was entirely rigid. In the blink of an eye, the tension was gone from his shoulders. He bit into the bread, smirking around the doughy middle. A sharp canine flashed, and he raised his chin so that she was forced to crane her neck further. "Gihi," he grunted in a mockery of a laugh. "That's too bad, shrimp," he sneered around another bite. The sound of Jose's cane tapping against the floor reached her ears, and she tented her brow. She caught the way he glanced at the Phantom master, that tic starting in his temple again.

The bread was thick in his throat, and for a moment, judging by her owlish stare, she looked like she was on the verge of solving a puzzle.

He couldn't afford that, now.

Jutting the toe of his boot in the dirt, he quickly captured her attention again when he dirtied her torn trousers further. Sporting that ruthless, toothy grin—the one that made severe shadows and lines cover his face—he dropped what was left of the bread at her feet like it was a soiled kerchief needing to be discarded.

He turned on his heel. His gait was smooth, even if his shoulders were raised in a subtle hunch, and he sat beside Juvia on the far side of the room. His fellow mercenary murmured something to him, which earned a quiet snort. To their left, a good distance away, was Jose. The Phantom leader idly twirled locks of blue hair around his fingers while examining his captive. Judging by the gleam in his eye and the curl of his thin lips, he was pleased with his pet's work.

Gritting her teeth, Miss McGarden blinked hard at the sight of the bread. Her hands balling into fists at her feet, she raised her chin toward the iron pet. His mouth moved, and something glinted between his teeth. She willed her eyes to drill through him. Making sure he was looking at her, for she could tell that he had _some_ curiosity locked away in his prison of darkness, she sucked in a breath, took the bread in hand, and bit into it.

A wee twig of fear snapped away after seeing the whites of his eyes flash in surprise. The bolt he'd been idly prodding about his mouth slipped from his lips and landed beside Juvia's foot with a dull, metallic thud.

* * *

The mercenaries settled down to rest with a few members staying awake to keep watch. Some retreated to a different room while others kept an eye on her. She lay on her side, curled in on herself, with her back to the mercenaries. She wanted to sleep—Mavis knew she did—but with her gut roiling and her intestines twisting in spasms, sleep was an impossible feat. It felt as if someone had shoved a fork down her digestive system; _everything_ hurt. Her abdomen, the small of her back, behind her ribs where her organs pulsed and pushed against each other in distress—all of it _hurt._

She didn't dare make a peep. She wanted to groan, to wail, to do anything to ease this bloated spiral in her body. She needed to let out something, and if her intestines couldn't do it, at least her voice could. Maybe she'd been like this for twenty minutes, thirty minutes, an hour, but it felt like she'd have to endure this for the whole night, or day, or evening, or whatever time it was.

 _Why_ had she gone and eaten that stupid baked lump of _wheat?_ Mavis be witness, Miss McGarden was an _idiot._ Biting the inside of her cheek and screwing her eyes shut, she held herself tighter and tried to control her uneven breaths.

Time stretched and yawned. The antechamber became full with the mercenaries' snores and snuffles. Miss McGarden clutched her sides. The spasms were finally starting to ebb. Tentatively, she rubbed her stomach, careful not to agitate it. A relieved sigh slipped passed her lips, and she cursed herself when she heard a shuffling sound from behind her. She hoped it wasn't Boze who had heard her. If it was any of the mercenaries coming to investigate her, she hoped it was Juvia. The thought made her uncomfortable, as she'd come to identify compassion in the _enemy._ She reminded herself that enemy or not, mercenary or not, they were _human._

She hoped that the mercenary was just stretching their legs or maybe going to answer Nature's call.

Miss McGarden should have learned by now that hoping and wishing were useless, petty things. She didn't hear the mercenary approach, but she saw their shadow cover her. She was thankful for the bandana still hiding her bad eye, and her good eye was pressed into the palm of her hand. There was a small scratching sound, and then the shadow was replaced with the light of the torch nearby.

She caught herself before she turned over. _No._ She could wait a little longer to be sure that they were gone. Her patience was already thin, ushered away by her thumping heart, and so she carefully rolled over onto her stomach. The movement was meant to look natural, and she hoped that she fooled anyone who happened to be watching her. Turning her head the smallest fraction, she puffed her cheeks in confusion.

A small bundle of jerky was within arm's reach, and next to it, scrawled in the dirt, was one word.

 _Eat._

* * *

A/N: This is my first take on a Fairy Tail story. This will have some darkish themes to it, but it isn't going to be a depressing dirge. This was heavily inspired by Indiana Jones, The Mummy, Tomb Raider, and National Treasure (I think there's a theme going on), but it will be loosely based off of these; I'm still putting in my own ideas, after all! :)

I won't be able to update this as often as I would like to (I wake up before the crack of dawn and get home after the sun has set for work), so I'm a tired person. That being said, I hope you understand and enjoy the story! Thank you, and as always, leave some feedback! :)


	2. Human Cogs

"Well, Miss McGarden? I am waiting."

She wasn't listening to the Phantom leader— _hadn't_ been listening for a few minutes, now, even though the niggling voice in the back of her mind insisted that she was making a _mistake_. In this moment, she forgot what that voice sounded like. Her mind was too busy recalling the earlier events of the day, night, afternoon, evening—whatever Zeref-be-damned time it was.

It began when Boze had woken her with a rude shove of his boot to her side, sneering at her to _get your bony ass off the floor before I start mopping it with ya._ Which, instead of making her cower like he no doubt wanted, made her pull her brows together in a frown. _That_ had him spit and jerk her arm at a sharp angle, making her shoulder click with a _pop!_ She remembered her head feeling lighter than air, her mouth opening up in a gasp, and her feet stumbling over the chains still cuffed to her ankles.

She plunged, or maybe the ground surged toward her, and her head was sinking through a thick bog and she was going back to that _safe_ place, that _dark_ place, thank Mav—

Her collar tightened about her throat, she remembered, but what followed was a blur. There was a moment of vertigo, and her eyes crossed and ankles twisted further, and then there was another jolt of pain stabbed into her shoulder that faded as quickly as it struck. What she remembered after that dizzy spell, besides Boze's grumbles and profanity, was _him._

 _He_ brushed past her. She rubbed her good eye, unconscious of her mouth falling open. She didn't feel Boze give her another push that made her knees buckle and toes stub into the ground, but she felt her breath lodge in her lungs when _he,_ the iron pet, looked over his shoulder to pierce Boze with a ruby eye.

Boze grunted something unintelligent, hooked his hand around her elbow, and dragged her off. Her eyes followed the iron pet all the while, again her breathing stopping short when he met her gaze for a brief moment.

And then that tic started again near his eye when the Phantom master called for him. It was another mistake for her to notice that tic, and the pet swiveled his head to glare at her. She was caught red-handed. But, her curious mind be damned, she could not help wondering if that glare was more of a safeguard than a threat.

Yes, she'd been making mistakes. Her most recent one was not hearing Jose repeat himself. No; her mind was elsewhere. She stood on the dais with the mercenaries, just before the door leading to the next level of the ruin. While her glazed eyes stared at her notes, her free hand idly rubbed her shoulder that, on occasion, still stung. The mercenaries had their supplies packed, anything they needed bundled in their packs strapped to their backs. Their leader ordered several of them to stay behind in the antechamber. Until the lower level was cleared of traps, the antechamber would continue to serve as their rendezvous point.

This puzzled her. A researcher, she was, and she was prone to poking about mysteries and the unknown. Although a curious mind was required for her career, the owner of the museum frequently warned her about being _too_ curious, _too_ driven by her hunger for knowledge—said that sometimes it was best to just _let it lie._

But this, this hypothesis she was developing, was the perfect bait.

When Jose had ordered two of his four most trusted mercenaries—his "Elements," as he called them—to stay behind in the antechamber, she thought it was to keep the morale high; if the Phantom leader thought they'd be successful exploring the next chamber without all of his strongest mercenaries present, then he'd be setting an air of confidence.

She came to realize how wrong she was after the two Elements took up their positions. One Element tweaked his moustache between his fingers and chattered to himself in a dialect of Boscan, and the other patrolled the shadows mumbling what sounded like apologies under his breath. The Elements made an uneasy feeling gnaw away at Miss McGarden's stomach, and she presumed she was not the only one feeling uneasy. Not with the way these two Elements seemed to creep out of the walls and metalwork, only to slink back into the earth or vanish into thin air itself.

The other Phantom mercenaries were wary of them as well—they _had to be._ She noticed Boze turn a lip up in—disgust? apprehension?—when the chattering Boscan Element materialized too close for comfort. This set the idea in Miss McGarden's mind: the Elements weren't there for morale; they were there as watchdogs.

Instead of appeasing her hunger, this realization served to make her want _more._ Damn her mind for thinking it, but Jose's orders did not seem logical. As far as she knew, no other raiders were aware of Karma's location; no one else was going to explore the ruin. Karma was, after all, just a fairy tale. That being the case, she rationalized, it did not stop the Phantoms from pursuing this fairy tale.

Jose liked to keep his best near himself at all times; having his two Elements stalk the antechamber would make him down two men. Which meant, if her buzzing brain was even onto something, the only logical reason for his actions was that it wasn't outsiders whom Jose did not trust.

It was his own mercenaries.

It was just a thought, just a gear cranked by the images of the iron pet's frown and twitching brow whenever Jose was near, but she was curious to see if it would connect to any more cogs.

Her hypotheses were interrupted when, from her peripherals, something moved. She raised her head, looking beyond the Phantom leader's shoulder. Her throat dried after seeing the iron pet there, squaring his shoulders and taking a quiet step to the side. His stare was scorching, and the bundle tucked away under her ruined blouse felt heavy against her hip.

Oh. Yes. Of course. His presence was the only reminder she needed to recall that he was to be joining the venturing party. She'd been trying to forget that little detail since Jose had selected him.

Pursing her lips, she did her best to meet his challenge, and her stomach jittered after remembering the last time she tried to defy him. At least he wasn't trying to shove another cursed lump of _wheat_ down her throat. This time, he was glancing between her and his master. His chin jutted, and his nostrils flared. She quirked a brow, following his flickering eyes, and then gulped.

Of course.

Master Jose's fingers twirled around a length of pale blue hair, and the sight caused her to bite her lip and rake through her notes. "There's a staircase," she blurted, "past the door."

Jose chuckled, and the fine hairs along her arms stood on end. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd lost your tongue, Miss McGarden. Such a pity it would be to see you choking on your own blood."

She swallowed again and curled her tongue, as if to reassure herself that it was still there. At the sound of the threat in his master's voice, Boze had taken an eager step closer to her, and she did her best to ignore him. "There's a staircase beyond this door. It leads to the lower level—the fourth, if I'm—" She bit her tongue and corrected herself when Jose pulled the hair taut between his knuckles. There wasn't any room for "ifs" with the Phantoms. There was only space for certainty. "The fourth level. There's a hallway—corridor, really—leading to what the Ferrians call the 'conference rooms.'"

Jose gestured for his pet and another one of his Elements, a man with his black and white hair pulled back in a high tail, toward the door. The Phantom leader stood off to the side with Juvia in tow, watching his men appraise the heavily sealed door.

"What do you make of it, Totomaru? Will your explosives get us through?"

The Element in question glanced over the hinges. "Without a doubt. Dynamite will do the trick." Her heart swam into her throat at the thought of destroying even an inch of the ruin. Karma was a precious gem, not a lump of plaster to demolish.

The man— _Totomaru,_ she mentally catalogued—raised his chin and smirked at his cart full of explosives. "I can get that thing open no problem." Miss McGarden gawked and then bit her lip to hide the expression. No, no, _no._ What he was suggesting was ludicrous to the librarian's ears.

" _Tch."_ The pet stood with his arms crossed and that ever-present scowl stretched over his mouth. "And take the whole ceiling with it?" His eyes slashed toward her, and for a moment, Miss McGarden felt hope. Jose valued _his_ word over this Totomaru's, surely. Then, the pet flashed a canine in a sneer, and she just _knew_ what he was going to say next. "Had enough of that fer now." The chains linking the cuffs about her wrists clinked together as her hands shook. She almost ripped her notes in two after Boze scuffed her heel with the toe of his boot.

Ignoring Totomaru's huffing, he palmed the door and gave it a forceful shove. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and she watched how his muscles coiled and then released. She wasn't sure if he was more of a prize than a pet.

"Steel's good," the pet said after a moment. "Strong stuff. Ferrians knew what they were doin'—"

"Use a crowbar," Miss McGarden said in a voice much too loud for the silence that followed. Boze snarled behind her, but she carried on regardless. "This city's more ancient than the oldest person alive. You can't just go blowing up every door or obstacle you see—"

She expected pain and punishment for sticking her captive nose where it did not belong, but she didn't expect _him_ to be standing inches from her, his hand still held out from the blow he dealt. The copper taste of blood erupted in her mouth, and red dotted her vision. His backhand had struck most of one side of her face, her cheek exploding in a numb fire, and the studs on his gloves had caught her lower lip and corner of her eye. On instinct, she bit her lip to keep her cries at bay, and only succeeded in splitting her lip further.

Boze hadn't bothered to right her when she stumbled. She saw Juvia shift on the balls of her feet, but she remained faithfully at Jose's side. Miss McGarden scolded herself for even thinking that one of the Phantoms would come to her aid. They were, after all, Jose's dogs.

Strong fingers gripped her arm and yanked her forward at an angle that tore at her sore shoulder, and then there was no escaping his furious red gaze.

"When Master wants yer tongue ta make some music fer us," he snarled as he held her chin in a steel grip, "he'll let ya know." The piercings along his brow dug into her forehead, and she wished that she could remember how to breathe. She hated how her eyes were blown wide, how her chin quivered, and how Master Jose's awful chuckles rang in her ears just as much as her blood.

"Beautiful work as always, Gajeel. Perhaps it would be best if we did take her tongue from her." The Phantom leader eyed the blood smeared down her chin. "Red looks lovely on skin so pale, after all."

 _Gajeel._ Why, oh why did it have to have a name? Names were for people. Names were titles given to children by loving parents. Names were what lovers whispered to each other. Names were fond, names were sometimes shortened into more familiar forms, names were safe and personal and unique identities.

Names were human.

She didn't know why she looked at this human as if he'd offer her some form of mercy. His gravelly voice took on a sharper, crueler edge. Those dark lines shadowed his nose and brow. "Say the word, Master, and I'll cover her in red from head to toe." Her pupils must have been the size of pin points with how wide her eyes were. Her lungs were burning, and her nose wiggled in her attempt to breathe. Dots speckled across her vision, and she was thankful for the dark place— _grateful_ for it—and if she fainted, then she wouldn't feel the pain, and maybe she'd stay fainted and wouldn't wake up to the pain—

 _There._ There it was. That tic. She knew she saw it; she was too close to be mistaken, no matter how fast his features twisted back into his ruthless sneer.

"I'm afraid not today, my boy."

She inhaled. There it was again.

The shadows framing his face faded, and Gajeel's rough voice bit out, "Crowbar will work fine." Totomaru sighed in disappointment.

While Jose turned to bark orders, his men scrambling about to bring the necessary tools, Gajeel kept her pinned with his glare. His broad frame hid her waif-like one from view, and the tension in his fingers crushed around her chin and arm loosened in a heartbeat. He made to wipe away the blood on her split lower lip, but checked himself when she winced. Instead, he rested his thumb between her nose and upper lip. She blinked, not expecting all of the ferocity on his face to have been replaced with frustration. Not sure whether or not to brace for more of his brutality, she made to suck in a breath, but before she could so much as lick her lips, he gripped the collar of her button-up and mouthed words that spurred her hypothetical gears to find more teeth to rotate.

 _Shut. Up._

Then he shoved her forward, not hard enough to send her sprawling and tripping, but enough for her to take a few steps back into steadying arms.

Juvia's arms.

For a moment, Juvia glanced between their leader's back and Gajeel. Miss McGarden raised her head just in time to see Juvia's deep eyes fixed on her, and when she blinked, Juvia had already ghosted away. Jose turned toward them, then, shooting Juvia a look before smiling at Miss McGarden.

"As you were saying about these 'conference rooms,'" he purred, raising a hand and taking absolute delight in the way Miss McGarden flinched. He rested his hand on the crown of her head, stroking that unusual blue hair. In front of them, his mercenaries began prying the door open.

With Jose's fingers digging into her scalp, she told him what he wanted to know. The fourth level was the trading quarters of Karma, used by merchants local and foreign to strike deals and exchange goods. Every deal, the Ferrians believed, required privacy, and as such, multiple conference rooms were designed for traders to bargain. Sometimes, depending on the goods being sold, deals would last weeks, and food would be brought to the merchants. Of course, more than once, foreign traders insisted that the wine was poisoned or that the food was purposely harsh on the stomach. But, as the tongue-in-cheek author innocently stated in one of the ancient texts, "Ferrians have stomachs made of steel."

The author spoke of stock rooms and treasuries in this level of Karma, but the text was too vague to pinpoint their exact locations relative to the conference rooms. It was logical, Miss McGarden thought, that the treasuries would be on the same level; it made no sense to haul currency or goods up and down the massive city, especially since certain deals exceeded tens of thousands of coins.

It was the mentioning of gold, silver, and jewels that made Jose's eyes light up. He licked his lips and patted her on the head. "We are making progress, then," he hissed. If he was a snake, Miss McGarden surmised, his forked tongue would have darted out. His forefinger curled around a lock of hair near her forehead, and she held her breath after he pulled the piece taut. "So much like my dear Juvia's," he mused.

Finally, he retracted his claws and walked toward his mercenaries, his staff keeping time with his steps. She inhaled once more.

The hinges gave one final _creak,_ and then the door was opened. Dust and metal fell from the threshold, and all heads turned toward the ceiling.

Nothing.

Miss McGarden let out a sigh. She had but a handful of seconds before Jose's voice rang out over the antechamber. It was disgusting, she thought, how he stood at the dais as if he had every right in the world to speak over such architectural mastery.

"We proceed to the fourth level," he said to his men. "We are one step closer to our goal. Once we've secured a location, we will return for the rest of you. If any member of my party returns without me, kill them." There was an answering chatter of _Oui, oui, oui!_ from somewhere in the shadows.

More gears turned, and Miss McGarden jerked her head toward the Phantom leader. She furrowed her brow, expanding her hypothesis, but was interrupted when one of the Elements, Totomaru, sauntered over to her.

"You're up front this time, my dear librarian captive," he said, "behind Juvia and Gajeel." The dirt on her face would have kept him from seeing how she paled at those words if he'd been paying her any mind. He held a stick of dynamite and prodded at the fuse. "I was really looking forward to using this, too. Maybe next time, though. I can feel it."

He fussed over the explosive a bit more, and then he raised a brow at her. "Well? Chop-chop."

She shuffled forward. The way she held her notes and tomes to her chest felt like a defensive measure, and she wasn't entirely certain if she was bracing for an attack or if she just wanted to be invisible to these people. Perhaps if she hunched her shoulders and bowed her head, yes. But Miss McGarden had a stubborn streak, a trait that had led her both to success in academia and also to misfortune. Still, she could only iron out so much of her personality to be their docile, meek captive.

She chanced peeling her eyes from the floor to witness Gajeel shoving his crowbar into Boze's hands, the latter Phantom huffing and grumbling something about being a pack mule. Cracking his knuckles, Gajeel angled his head— _away from her?—_ and furrowed his brow when the chattering Boscan Element appeared at his side.

His tone was all nails and bolts. "Ain't Juvia supposed ta be comin' with us?" The mercenary in question moved down the stairs with her smooth gait and spared a small look over her shoulder. Miss McGarden didn't know that Boze was about to shove her again, but Juvia certainly saw how Boze stalked over to their captive.

Juvia made eye contact with Boze, and she focused her gaze pointedly on his crotch. Her fist clenched and unclenched, and the message was as clear as the cobwebs that littered Karma. He gulped and cupped his groin.

" _Non, non, non!"_ the Boscan chittered. _"_ _Le Maître_ decided I would be a better companion, _Monsieur_ Redfox. Ze earth and walls 'old no secrets! _Non, non, non,_ I will find any trap and conspiracy within zese halls. Juvia will stay behind with Aria to keep watch over ze rubble. Or rabble, whichever you prefer." He bowed low to the ground and swept his arms out, earning an annoyed eye-roll from the pet.

Sol tweaked his moustache and offered a grin that was far too jovial to be genuine. Gajeel's scowl worsened, but he grunted out a _tch_ and took his place behind Sol. With those two leading, Miss McGarden quietly made her way behind the iron pet. She hoped to go unnoticed and maintain more than an arm's length away from the brute in front of her, but she should have known better. Boze pushed her forward a tad gentler than the usual force behind his abuse until she was but inches from _him._

She didn't want to look at him, so she kept her eyes trained on her feet. Behind her was Boze, who was carrying the rest of her documents, and following him were other mercenaries and Master Jose. At the end of the procession was Totomaru who, despite pulling his cart of explosives, kept his eyes sweeping in every direction, as if readying for an ambush.

She swallowed. She certainly felt as if she was entering dangerous territory. Before she could send another prayer for Mavis to descend and fly away with her, the procession began to move.

And then she was in the fourth level of Karma.

* * *

They were spaced apart several feet from each other, the Boscan Element more so, and moved at a snail's pace. Sol jittered and twitched and fidgeted about the corridor lit only by their torches.

The corridor was narrow, not as wide as she thought it would be. The wheels on Totomaru's cart rattled and squeaked through the hallway, and she wondered how the cart even fit in this part of Karma. The vaulted ceiling, instead of making the passage more spacious, added to that queasy feeling in her stomach. The chandeliers had been unlit for centuries, and they hung off of clinking chains that were no doubt rusted. Just the thought of one of those links breaking…

Perhaps it was like this to lessen the chance of spies; a bigger passage would have been too convenient for meddling. Or, maybe it was designed so that foreign traders would feel ill at ease, and thus agree to any price for their wares just so that they could escape back to their homeland.

She almost snorted at the idea.

Miss McGarden was petite, though; she could tolerate the narrow, cramped walls. Besides, with the walls so close, she didn't need to stray from Boze's torch to make out the tapestries and carvings etched into the metalwork. Still, he grumbled and huffed when she'd crane her neck to have a closer look.

One particular carving repeated itself throughout the passageway. It was a pattern of two shapes, slanted and curved, and mirror images of each other. Three wisps— _or maybe wings?_ —branched outward from the shapes. The shapes reminded her of butterflies, if she squinted and turned her head to the side. She frowned, knowing that the symbol was important if it was repeated so frequently, but not knowing its significance.

How she wished she had an hour, or two, or four, to ponder over these walls.

" _Non, non, non!"_

In unison, the mercenaries stopped. Her foot caught on an uneven part of the tiled floor hidden by dirt and scraps of metal. She corrected herself and frowned after noticing the soles of her feet were bleeding. _He_ had turned his head to look at her. He wasn't glaring, and that scowl was still there. His brows, however, were pulled together in—no, the pet did not know how to be concerned for another human being. The dried blood on her chin and swollen temple were testament to that.

Perhaps she should have been concerned for him. The lines of his body were rigid, and his shoulders were hunched with tension. If she had been wary of the tight space, then he must have been sandwiched in here. He was long-legged and broad-shouldered; the corridor looked like a cookie-cutter around his figure.

Miss McGarden felt sorry for him, if only because he was too tall. The pouch at her waist felt very heavy, then.

" _Sacré bleu!_ Ze first trap 'as been found, _Maître!_ Ze tripwire!"

"Can you disarm it?" Jose's voice sounded from the back of the procession.

"Ah— _oui!_ Above us, though! And all around ze walls: holes! _Salut! Un moment s'il vous plait."_

The mercenaries waited, listening to Sol tinkering with the trap, for what felt like hours to Miss McGarden. She shuffled the length of the shackles on her feet, readjusted her books, and glanced to either side of her. Sol had disarmed all the traps leading to the fourth level, and while that brought some level of comfort, there was always a first for everything.

If hoping made her a fool, then thinking the worst made her bad luck.

" _Tomber par terre! Non, non, non!"_

Movement erupted in the passageway. Streaks of silver flashed by her, so close that she could feel them slicing through the air. On instinct, she shot her cuffed hand in front of her, her sore shoulder jolting in pain, grabbed, and then pulled—

She'd have done it for anyone, her buzzing mind rationalized. Yes, she'd have done it for any human being; it was in her nature to do so. She didn't know she'd shuffled so close to him, and judging by the bewildered pair of red eyes meeting her own startled gaze, he hadn't been expecting her to do this either.

He lay on his back, she on her stomach beside him with her head adjacent to his, just blinking at each other while silver sliced through the air above them. Her hand was still knotted in his hair, and the dull pulse at the back of her own head told her that he'd have an ugly bruise there. Her legs twitched from the fall, and he followed the fidgety movements with a critical eye.

The frown twisting his face formed a lump in her throat.

" _Merde! C'est impossible!"_

"Headcount!" Totomaru shouted from the back of their party. "I hear Sol loud and clear. Master Jose?"

"Alive, annoyed, and breathing."

"Still alive up there, Redfox?" Totomaru called.

"Oi!" His rough bark startled her into jumping. She'd have been in the line of fire, had his hand not anchored itself to the back of her neck and held her to the ground. The last projectile broke against the wall, and then the passage was heavy with the sounds of their labored pants and nervous chatter.

" _Je suis désolé, Maître!"_ Sol flapped his arms and legs about on the ground, as if he was trying to make a snow-angel out of the dirt. "I could 'ave sworn it was disarmed! Ze damn Ferrians and zeir traps! _Non, non, non!"_

The Phantom mercenaries slowly sat themselves up. Miss McGarden slid her fingers out of his hair, not wanting to snag any pieces. She averted her gaze, her eyes falling on his shemagh. It was rumpled about his neck and chest, and a leather cord had slipped out of it. She followed the cord and tilted her head to the side when she eyed the circular, metal disk it was attached to.

The side visible to her didn't have any markings, but she had a feeling it was lying face-down. Another cog turned after he snatched the pendant and shoved it back under his shemagh. If looks could kill, she would be ashes.

"Librarian? Hey! Miss McGarden, if you are alive, answer me!"

Clearing her throat, she croaked out a meek, "Here," in response to Totomaru. Carefully, she climbed to her hands and knees. Her bandana and hair framing her face, she hoped that the iron pet wouldn't catch her stealing a glance at him.

Hope. How foolish.

Her arms started to shake, and she crossed them over her chest to keep the spasms at bay. Just as she began to tilt her chin into her collarbone, her head was jerked upward, and she was greeted by Boze's snarling face.

"Ya step on somethin', you pain in my ass? Ya step on a trigger or somethin'? I swear, if I have to pick darts out of my hide because ya can't watch where yer damn goin'—" He yelped and landed backward on the ground.

The pet rolled his eyes and brushed past him to the end of the group. There, he stopped in his tracks, and she held her breath.

Jose pushed a mercenary's body off of himself, the darts lining the corpse's entire front making him look like an acupuncture experiment. Flicking back a piece of hair that had fallen on his brow, Jose stood and tapped his staff on the ground. "Such a pity. Wouldn't you agree, my boy?"

His pet only offered so much as an inclination of his head. Jose straightened his coat and gestured in front of them. "Teach Sol what it means to lead me into a trap."

Nodding, he stalked back the way he came, his shoulders rolling and those lines crossing his face again. He paused once he reached the floundering Boscan. Miss McGarden was certain that he didn't think she'd be by the Element's side, poking away at the trigger.

"Oi! You tryin' ta get us skewered?" he growled.

She ran the length of the broken tripwire through her fingers, frowning. There were two wires braided together, and at the end of the braid, the wires split. The wires ran into the floor in different directions; one followed the width of the wall, while the other spanned the length toward the ceiling.

Now she understood.

"You disarmed the darts on the ceiling," she said to Sol, "but not the ones in the wall."

" _C'est impossible,"_ he blubbered. "I 'ad only one job, and I 'ave failed!"

"There are two wires," she continued. "You substituted the pressure on one of the wires with a rock, but not the other one. See?" Miss McGarden peered up at the iron pet, a small smile stretching across her mouth. With her bloody lips, bruises, and scuffed chin, she must have looked a gruesome sight. "You have to work on the pressure simultaneously with weights until the tension is moved into the hanging rock, not into the wire across the floor."

" _Oui, oui! Je comprends!"_ Sol tutted, lifted the snapped wires, and studied his substitute weight. "I will 'ave to collect more rocks." He jumped after noticing Jose's iron pet looming nearby, and Sol raised his hands and chattered his excuses. " _Monsieur_ Redfox! Please! It was accident. Ze _mademoiselle_ 'as already taught me 'ow to 'andle zese traps, _non?_ Please, give me another chance!"

Gajeel scowled and hauled Sol up by his lapels. "It-it was a complex trap," a small voice said behind him. Ignoring the Boscan's blubbers, he slammed his forehead into Sol's face. His piercings bit into his skin, and then he dropped Sol onto the ground.

Miss McGarden was his next victim. He crushed her against the wall, his hands fisted in the front of her button-up, and glared at her. She kicked her legs, trying to have her toes touch the ground, but she was positively suspended.

The engravings along the wall dug into her spine. They weren't there for decoration at all; they were there to play house to darts. She hoped a laggard dart wouldn't stab her in the back.

Maybe it was good to hope.

"Don't make me repeat myself again," he said quietly, his voice like darkness and gravel. _"_ You shut _up,_ smallfry. _"_ He held her there until she agreed to his command, watching her pout, lower her eyes, and then finally give a small nod. Releasing her, he stepped away just as Jose, Totomaru, and the handful of other mercenaries joined them.

"I trust there will be no further accidents," the Phantom leader said. Mavis, how Miss McGarden hated his voice. It made her feel as if slime was oozing down her body, into all of her pores, between her fingers and toes.

No, that wasn't slime making her feet and hands slick. That was blood. To hide the sight from her captors, she clasped her hands in front of herself and tucked her feet together. She was small; perhaps if she willed herself to be smaller, they wouldn't notice her.

"And the body?" Totomaru asked once he was done inspecting his explosives for any damage. He nodded behind them. Miss McGarden hunched her shoulders and squeezed her eyes closed.

"Leave it," Jose said. "The others will dispose of it later, before it starts to stink." A hand fell on her shoulder, and she peeked an eye open to find the Phantom leader grinning down at her. "Come now, Miss McGarden. If you know so much about these traps, then perhaps you should be the one leading us. Or was it your intention to lead us astray all along? After all, you are the only one who can read those books."

She shook her head to and fro, her expression mirroring that of a fish out of water. "I didn't—it didn't say anything—I don't—"

"Then by all means," Jose purred, sinking his hand to her back and pushing her forward. "Lead the way, Miss McGarden."

That invisible chain named "Fear" prodded her to pad to the front of the party. Sol fidgeted behind her, murmuring in his native tongue and apologizing to his master after every breath. Jose had retreated into his cluster of mercenaries, his meat shields, and Boze was somewhere amongst them, grumbling. The pet took his iron vigil behind her, and he kept at her heels when she began inching deeper down the corridor.

On occasion, a knuckle would press into her spine, but never enough to hurt.

Just enough to make her aware of his presence.

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, my goodness! Thank you everyone who has reviewed: the 3 Guests, Usweasil, JadeOccelot, AndreaRei, xblood kittenx, and deblovesdragons! Also huge, HUGE thank you to everyone who has followed/fav'd the story! I've never had a turn-out like this for any first chapter that I've written. Augh, guys and gals, I can't even begin to thank you. You're awesome!**

 **But sorry for taking so long with this chapter. I'm very tired :( all the time :( my work is my life :( and it's hard to find time for any form of art. I'll try to be more prompt for the next installment!**

 **Translations:**

 _Oui:_ French for "yes"

 _Non:_ French for "no"

 _Monsieur:_ French for "mister"

 _Sacré bleu!:_ a French expression of surprise

 _Maître:_ French for "master"

 _Salut!:_ French for "hello"

 _Un moment s'il vous plait:_ French for "One moment, if you please"

 _Tomber par terre!:_ roughly translates into the French form of "Hit the deck!"

 _Je suis désolé:_ French for "I am sorry"

 _Merde:_ French swear word for "Shit!"

 _C'est impossible!:_ French for "It is impossible!"

 _Je comprends!:_ French for "I understand!"

 _mademoiselle:_ French term to address a young lady, or an unmarried woman (older connotation)


	3. An Hour for Two

The fourth level of Karma was long and testing. Sweat trickled down Miss McGarden's neck because of the suffocating humidity, the deafening silence hanging about the procession, and also for the number of traps she came across.

The traps were all tripwires, and she was quick to notice them. The Boscan Element would chitter and flitter about her while she readjusted the pressure and weights attached to the traps. Jose would take a step closer to his men, and the iron pet would loom over her, red eyes bouncing off the walls and ceiling for a telltale glimmer of steel.

With her work, the tripwires remained harmless. Totomaru marked each disarmed trap with a red length of cloth. "For when we make the trek back," the demolitions expert explained dryly.

The progression was slow and mechanical. She was weary to her bones, and her every step was clumsy. She dragged her feet through the corridor, biting her lip to withstand the burn of the arid dirt scraping against the cuts along her soles. Her eyes would cross when the pain would spike, and to keep that scream lodged in her throat, she'd pant and gulp down more scorching air.

The pet balled the fabric between her shoulder blades in his fist after she stumbled. He tugged her back onto her feet and nudged her forward. She flinched and tried to edge away from him, but his hand remained. There was a weight in her chest and stomach that made her feel nauseated. Every breath, every step, and every moment she was aware of his presence had her head spinning. She needed to vomit, but she doubted Jose would allow her that luxury.

Her stomach growled, reminding her of another reason why the room was in a rapid tango. She hugged her sides, hoping to quiet her grumbling belly. All her efforts produced was another grumble. She hunched her shoulders and prayed that no one in the silent procession heard her.

"Oi," the pet murmured. He was too close to her, his head angled just above hers, and she held herself tighter. He took in another breath to say something else, but a screech followed by curses interrupted his thought. His hands locked around her arms, and he hunched, bringing her with him. The pet searched the corners, the walls, the ceiling, every visible part of the corridor for any sign of danger.

Then, his shoulders relaxed and he raised a brow at the source of the commotion.

"Wheel's out," Totomaru grunted. He and the other mercenaries were crowded about his wagon, holding the cart up to keep it from tipping over.

"How long until it is fixed?" Jose asked. The Phantom master kept his posture tall and straight, but there was a look in his eyes that betrayed his composure. His hand was curled around a mercenary's arm.

Totomaru pursed his lips and appraised the wheel. He locked his gaze with the pet's. "An hour, maybe. Think you can fix it, Redfox?"

Gajeel snorted and took a few paces forward. Miss McGarden, though she hated to admit it, wished she had something still supporting her swaying body. "Course I can," he said. Joining Totomaru, he knelt and inspected the wheel. "Spokes are broken."

"How long?" Jose asked, coming to stand beside them. His staff tapped against the ground.

Miss McGarden held her breath when the pet glanced at her from across the hall. She tried to keep her swaying to a minimum, tried to put her weight on both feet. Before she knew it, she was leaning against the wall for support.

"Two hours," Gajeel said after a moment. "Yer bearing's cracked, too."

"Two hours," Jose repeated with a nod. A grin curled his lips upward, a gleam lighted his eyes, and he called for his men to rest and gather their wits before continuing through the fourth level. Then, he motioned for Sol and several others to follow him back down the corridor. With just torchlight making his face visible, the Phantom leader glared over his shoulder and hissed, "Two hours, but nothing more."

* * *

"The hell were ya usin' a wooden wheel?" Gajeel scowled at the damage. The spokes were splintered, cracked, and two of them were snapped completely in half.

Totomaru sniffed and let go of the cart to cross his arms. The other mercenaries groaned at the additional weight. "Because a metal wheel would require lubrication, cleaning, and constant oiling to keep it functional. It's a wagon, Redfox, not a bicycle or automobile."

"Yeah," Gajeel grunted. He swung his pack off and started rifling through it. "Just a wagon, but it's still too heavy for these wusses. Oi! Take the explosives outta the cart first."

The mercenaries didn't need to be told twice before they dropped the cart and started emptying it. Totomaru clicked his tongue. "Your sense of camaraderie is absolutely touching, Redfox. I feel so—hey! Be careful with those! You put your torch any closer, dimwit, and Karma will be known for its fireworks, not its steel!" The mercenaries scrambled and hurried with their business before excusing themselves to rest.

Gajeel snorted and began tinkering with the wheel. "Yer standin' in the light," he said.

"Begging your pardon," Totomaru sighed, "but I'm watching you work." He jostled his torch this way and that, snickering when Gajeel's shoulders tensed.

"Ya ain't gonna be seein' nothin' if ya don't get outta the way," he snarled. He detached the wheel and set it down to the side.

"Oh," Totomaru winced, "that looks worse than before."

"I wouldn't know," Gajeel growled. Clicking his tongue, Totomaru shuffled and slid his torch in a sconce not too far from them. Sitting in front of him, he watched while Gajeel screwed this, pulled that spoke off, growled at that spoke, grumbled and cursed the bearing, and damned the entire wheel for being wooden instead of metal.

"You're awfully good at this tinkering business," Totomaru mused quietly. He hummed and grinned after receiving a glare in response. "A shame your conversational skills aren't up to par."

"Sure are chatty today." He emphasized his point by crushing his fist around a spoke and cracking it in two.

Totomaru chuckled and pulled the holder out of his hair. "We've been walking for hours without so much as anyone sneezing or coughing. Can you blame me?" Gajeel didn't answer him, for he was focused on replacing the broken wooden parts of the wheel with metal parts. Totomaru rolled his eyes. Seeing his fellow mercenary's work, however, prompted him to arch a brow. "Well, color me shocked."

Gajeel ignored him.

Totomaru leaned forward, making sure he blocked the torchlight, and whispered, "Two hours, huh?" He looked down the hall and then winked at Gajeel.

The iron pet's entire body became lined with tension: his muscles coiled, his head lowered, his shoulders hunched, and awful shadows played over his brow and nose. _"Two hours."_

"Indeed," Totomaru said. He propped his chin on his hand and smirked. "I wonder if she'd like some tea, too? Maybe biscuits and lox? Oh, I know! You could rub her back and shoulders. Poor thing looks terribly uncomfortable. You should see how she's sitting at that angle—" He held his tongue. Jose's pet had hauled him forward by his bowtie, his grip threatening to ruin the garment and perhaps his neck.

"That right?" he growled, bearing his teeth. "Maybe ya'd like to wait on the chit and tell Jose yer crazy ideas, huh?"

Totomaru tried brushing away the pet's hand, but his fist merely tightened. Still, the demolitions expert smirked at him. "Oh, I'm not the one waiting on her, Redfox."

His body still coiled, he released Totomaru and buried himself in fixing the stupid wheel. The Element had to stay there, smirking at him and winking from time to time. More than once, Totomaru would comment to himself about either Gajeel's work or their _poor librarian, just look at her—the dear must be so tired, and when was the last time she ate?_

* * *

Miss McGarden lay on her side, her eyes slowly falling closed and then snapping open again. She tried to remain standing, but she'd found herself sliding to her bottom, and from there, onto her side. She nodded on and off, and now she was not certain if she could rise from where she lay. Her breath came out in pants, and her tongue occasionally darted out to wet her cracked lips.

She was parched. And her stomach hurt.

She told herself that she'd close her eyes for five minutes, nothing more. Just five minutes, really, was all she needed, and she'd wake up back in her apartment, in her bed with her suitcases at the door—

Something showered over her face. She licked her lips again, and oh _god, Mavis,_ the taste was salty and sent her sputtering.

"Ya still thirsty, ya pain in my ass?"

She knew that voice.

"I got somethin' for you, alright. Drink up."

 _Boze._

Miss McGarden was not accustomed to feeling rage. She could frown, she could glare, and she could give people disapproving looks that stopped the wrongdoers in their tracks. But never, not even when her employer dismissed her research as fool's work, did she feel her blood blazing and scorching through her veins to the point where she wanted to hurt someone.

This sight, this image before her of Boze shaking out the last of his urine, sent fire racing to her fingertips, her toes, her throat and stomach and face—and every muscle was bunched up, her hands balling into fists and her toes curling and by _Zeref and his Spriggans,_ she wanted to knee the part of his anatomy he was still holding.

Boze leered and tucked himself back into his khakis. "That better for ya? I guess yer hungry too?" He dug something out of his pocket and dumped it in the puddle of piss in front of her. Laughing at his handiwork, Boze settled his hands on his hips and sneered, "Better eat. Gotta keep yer strength up, girly." Hooting, he sauntered away. Several mercenaries down the hall joined in with his cackling.

Lips still pursed, Miss McGarden reached toward her face with a shaking hand. Rubbing the urine away with her sleeve, she flared her nostrils and squeezed her eyes closed. Then, she spat and gagged and rolled her tongue out of her mouth. Her knee bumped against something small, and she glanced down to see the food Boze had left her.

Bread. Soaking up his piss.

A whine bubbled through her lips, and she muffled the sound by biting into her arm. She kicked her legs as much as her shackles would allow her, and dropped her free hand over and over into the dirt next to her. By Mavis and all of her Fairies, she _hated—_

Someone was sitting beside her, had _just_ sat beside her. Her blood pounded in her ears; if it was Boze to piss on her or give her thrice-damned _wheat_ as sustenance, she was going to rearrange his face.

Or, at the very least, she'd try.

Propping herself on an elbow, she whirled and was ready to teach Boze a lesson on house-trained toiletry manners. It wasn't Boze who had sat next to her, though. Oh, no, far from Boze; Boze, she could screech at right now. But _him,_ she forgot how to use her tongue and became mute. In a frantic motion, she threw herself back onto her side, hid her face in her arms, and hoped he'd leave or scoot over a few feet.

There was no sound of movement, just the sound of his dark, gravelly voice.

"Ya haven't eaten," he said, loud enough just for her to hear. She was silent, unsure if he wanted a response to his observation, and unsure if she could trust herself to remain docile. Oh, her blood was still singing, even if the thrum of anger was dimming into fear.

She heard him shift next to her, and she lowered her arms to see him stretch his legs out. His head was resting against the wall, eyes staring at the ceiling, and that ever-present scowl was on his face. Those red eyes slashed toward her, and in a fumbled breath, she squeaked, "I said I can't eat bread."

"Not that," he growled. He bent himself over her and grabbed at her waist. He pulled her closer and ripped aside the hem of her dirty button-up to expose the bundle tucked into her khakis. "Ya haven't _eaten,"_ he snarled. A frown drew his pierced brows together, and his lip was curled in—

"You are unhappy," she whispered. After those words left her mouth, she scrambled backward, and her hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes widened at the way he inhaled, the way he grabbed at her blouse, and she closed her eyes when he raised his fist, and—

"And you got piss on yer nose."

She peeked her good eye open to find him sitting further away from her, head resting in his palm while his other hand held out a rumpled kerchief. He stared at the ceiling, and she realized that his flared nostrils and furrowed brow were the results of him counting his breaths.

After she didn't make to accept the kerchief, he dropped it between them and folded his arms. "Waitin' for an invitation?" he grumbled.

Slowly, she reached out, and once she was sure that he wasn't going to lunge at her, she snatched the kerchief. Even with the cuts and bruises on her dirty face, she rubbed and rubbed at her nose. Afterward, she folded the kerchief and placed it between them again.

"Ya gonna eat, or what?"

His voice made her jump, and she scooched further from him. Pulling herself into a sitting position, she unfolded the bundle of jerky at her waist and stared at the dried meat. Shaking her head, she placed the bundle between them on top of his kerchief.

He snarled and slid the bundle closer to her. "Yes, you are."

"I'm not," she said quietly. She slid it back and jolted when his fingers wrapped around her wrist.

"Look here, short stuff. Ya got 'bout ten minutes to eat the meat before Jose decides our two hours are up. If ya don't eat it, I get ta tug and yank on yer arm throughout Karma so that ya don't face-plant onto a trap."

She met his glare with pursed lips and a tented brow, and damn him, this little waif was determined. He could match that. "Tick tock, little girl." To punctuate his demand, her traitorous stomach wailed in protest of her stubborn refusal.

She straightened her back in surprise at the symphony coming from her belly. Slowly, she drew her hand out from his and held the bundle. Plucking a piece of jerky out, she stared long and hard at it.

"Eight minutes," he said. Finally, she started to nibble. A nibble turned into a bite, a chomp, and then she was shoving the rest of the meat into her mouth. He held a canteen out toward her, and once she swallowed her last bite, she narrowed her eyes at it.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Water," he snorted. "Don't know what that is either, huh?" He turned away from her, and the weight of the canteen left his hand. Her fingers never brushed against his. Further down the hall, Totomaru fussed over his explosives. The Element swiveled his head and winked at Gajeel, making Jose's favorite clench his knees so tightly that small rips began stretching over the khakis.

Hearing sniffling, Gajeel peered over at her and gnashed his teeth together. She had uncorked the canteen and was sniffing it.

"It ain't piss, if that's what yer thinkin'," he said. Her shoulders leapt at the sharp tone in his voice.

"I was just—"

"What? Makin' sure that I ain't gonna make ya drink piss like that shithead did? Think I'd be as bad as Boze, did ya?"

Totomaru's chuckle echoed through the passage, and Gajeel's knuckles turned white.

She bit her lip and slouched down the wall. "N-no, I—"

She thought his voice was already baritone, but it dripped into an octave full of vibrations and molten steel. "Good," he purred, and she gasped when his breath tickled her ear. Then, she was face-to-face with him. He held her bruised chin, forcing her to look at him. "Because I'd do you one better: I'd make sure you drank _all_ of it, sweetheart." Her face burned when she understood what his words meant, and she tried to squirm out of his grip.

But then, her brows set in a sharp angle. She puffed her cheeks out, and before he could so much as frown in confusion, she bopped the canteen against his head.

Water spilled onto his hair, face, shemagh and shirt, and there was a brief moment where he spat and flailed his arms, trying to grab the canteen. All he managed to do was knock it onto the floor where the rest of the water poured out. "The _hell—"_

"If a basic human necessity such as water comes with the price of putting up with your rude, inappropriate suggestions, then I prefer to be dehydrated," she hissed. She tucked her legs into her chest and rested her chin on her knees. Her mouth was twisted in a pout, and her angry hazel eyes pinned him to the spot. "So if you would kindly _piss off,_ you hulking brute, it would be much appreciated."

He blinked at her. His mouth was open, he knew it, but by all that was metal and ancient, even the girl's _nose_ was pouting. He saw everything: the way her brow twitched, how her mouth twisted around such a minor swear, as if she wasn't used to speaking such _bad, bad words,_ and how her small hands gripped her small feet.

And then, her eyes widened. She paled, and he could only guess she just realized what she had said to _him,_ Jose's ruthless possession, and what he was capable of and entitled to do to her.

He started by wiping his face and flicking the water off his hands, smirking when some droplets hit her. " _Tch._ Lotta words for a captive, don't ya think?" He leaned toward her, maintaining eye contact, and reached out. His hand was close to her leg, but instead of touching her, he took the soaked piece of bread from the floor.

Before she could ask, he said, "If Jose sees that ya didn't eat, I'll have ta hit ya again."

And then it was her turn to gawk when he bit into the soggy, piss-soaked lump of bread. The clicks of Jose's staff tapping against the floor from further down the hall reached their ears just as he finished his last bite.

* * *

The corridor ended with a pair of double-doors halting the procession. Miss McGarden stopped a handful of feet from the door, wary of any traps and triggers. She bit her lip and made no fuss when the pet stepped forward to look over the metalwork. From the corner of her eye, she stole glances at him.

Totomaru joined him, and they appraised the structure while the mercenaries behind them nervously chattered and shifted on their feet.

"Well, Miss McGarden," Jose said. His hand rested atop her head, and his fingers twirled around her hair. "I don't seem to recall you mentioning this."

"The conference rooms are just beyond the door," she quietly explained.

"And the door?" he asked, raising a slicked brow at her. A terrible grin exposed his long teeth. "Would the door happen to be another trap?" She lowered her eyes and wrung her wrists. He patted her head and pushed her forward with his staff. "Well, if you don't know, then I don't suppose you wouldn't mind being the first to venture through."

"That, unfortunately," Totomaru said, "isn't going to happen, Master. The door is sealed."

"Then pry it open," Jose said. "We're getting closer."

"There aren't any hinges to pry," Totomaru explained. "Take a look: there's some sort of engraving—oval-like, you can say—in the middle of the door. Something's supposed to go there, and that something turns the gears, and the door—"

"Yes, yes," Jose said, raising a hand. "I have eyes, Totomaru. So, we lack the key."

Miss McGarden edged her way closer to the door beside Gajeel and peeked up at him. His brow was furrowed to the point where his piercings almost touched, and sweat dotted his nose and upper lip. Both of them examined the mold outlined in the middle of the door. Totomaru was correct; it was shaped like an oval. It was about the size of her fist, and there must have been grooves in it to move the gears along the door.

Gajeel glanced down at her. He quickly moved back to the procession after noticing her eyes trained on his shemagh.

"Hey, librarian," Totomaru said. He elbowed her out of the way and grinned. "Looks like we're gonna have some fun now." He held up his explosives and tapped the sticks together. "I'm thinking two sticks and some cherry bombs for good measure. You know, just to make sure we blow it off in one go. Think the ceiling will hold?"

She clenched her shirt in both hands and raised her chin. "If it doesn't hold, I hope you're the first it buries."

Totomaru laughed and poked her with an explosive. "Careful what you wish for, dearie." Jose himself collected her, and she was pulled by the back of her neck back down the corridor.

"It must be difficult for you, Miss McGarden," Jose purred. "You've spent years studying Ferroc, admiring the texts you managed to pull from Mavis-knows-where. I can only imagine how heartbreaking it is to know that we may end up toppling its capital."

From the shadows off to the side, Gajeel glared at his master.

" _Oui, oui!"_ Sol agreed with a flourish of his arms. "To think zat we may be buried under ze dirt! _Magnifique, non?"_

"Tell me, Miss McGarden," Jose continued. He tugged her to a stop in front of him and made her face forward. She saw Totomaru strapping his explosives from the end of the hallway and knew it was only a matter of time before Mavis decided Karma's fate. She was torn out of her horrors as Jose's hand wrapped around her throat, forcing her to look at the ceiling. He buried his nose in her hair and chuckled. Goosebumps erupted over her arms and legs.

"Such an unusual color," he mused. His voice dropped to a hiss. "Tell me, now, Miss McGarden: you wouldn't happen to be a descendant of the Viathans, hm?" She turned her head to frown at the Phantom leader. Rather, that was her intent; instead, she couldn't look away from _him,_ Gajeel, because he was staring at her with the whites of his eyes flashing.

And then Totomaru came sprinting toward them, whooping and throwing a fist in the air. "Here we go!" he hollered. "Down, down, _down!"_

She was expecting there to be a tremor, a vibration that would climb into a crescendo that threatened to topple them. There was just the crescendo, however, a cacophony of curses, shouts, wind and pressure zipping past and through her. She grappled for something to hold onto; even if she was on her stomach, covering her head with an arm, she thought she'd be blown away.

Finally, the roars and yowls of the explosion died down. Dust and debris had swallowed the corridor, and fear and memories and _Mavis, don't let the ceiling open on us—_

She was choking, gagging on memories and powder and metal. The dust was in her blouse and bandana, and anywhere she breathed, there was just _more_ of it. Weight landed on her ankle, and she croaked out a scream. This was it: the ceiling was collapsing, yawning and breaking through ancient concrete, metal, and pipework, and over time, her skeleton would be all that remained.

"Oi!"

"Everyone, back! Redfox, find the librarian and get her out of here until the dust settles. Master, where—"

She dared to open one eye, and there was Jose's face, grinning and leering by her feet. His hair was stuck to his forehead, and he was licking his lips at her.

Or, rather, her hair.

Boze's voice sounded from somewhere in the dust. "Bad enough I gotta carry her books. I swear if that little bitch choked and tripped on somethin' that could kill us—" He yelped, and then there was a thud.

Jose pulled onto her leg, and then latched his hand onto her arm. Yanking her up with him, he gathered his cloak around his face and shoved her this way and that through the dust. Her chains rattled and she stubbed her toes while trying to match his quick, choppy pace. Not soon enough, she made out the silhouettes of his mercenaries through the dust, and then she was shoved forward.

Her face smacked against something hard and unyielding, her bruised chin and split lip erupting in more pain, and something strong and coiled with muscle wrapped around her waist to steady her slipping body. "Oi," came the gruff rumble, and while a fraction of her wanted to relax knowing she was out of Jose's clutches— _for now—_ the dominant part of her wanted to push and scramble away from him. Cloth wound about her head, and she stiffened at the noose-like feeling.

Then she was swallowed in darkness. "Breathe, shorty."

And she did. Softly, at first, and then in gulps and pants. With his shemagh wrapped around her, she could breathe. She smelled sweat, dust, and a metallic odor that she suspected was part of the iron pet's unique scent, but fragrant or not, she could _breathe._

There was just one thing that baffled her: the cord about his neck was gone. Rather, it was missing.

"Still alive, librarian?" Totomaru called out. The pet's shemagh was yanked away, and then he melted into the shadows. Falling to her knees and catching herself on her palms, she coughed and swallowed the scorching, life-giving air. Totomaru emerged from the dust and laughed, "Yes, she's still alive. That was fun, wasn't it?"

"Ya used too much," Gajeel barked. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, shooting the demolitions expert with a glower. "Wouldn't be surprised if other parts of the ruin collapsed."

Totomaru shrugged and offered a toothy smile. "Well, that's karma for you, isn't it?" He hooted and gasped at Gajeel's dry expression. "That's called a _joke,_ Redfox," he managed to wheeze out.

"Tch."

"If you two gentlemen are finished," Sol chattered. He bent low to the ground and motioned behind him. " _Le Maître_ would like to proceed. Ze dust 'as settled, _non?"_

The Boscan was correct: the dust, while still thick in the air further down the corridor, was closer to the ground.

Totomaru tugged her by her button-up and waited for her to steady herself. Without any support, it took her a few moments to remember how to use her feet. "Off we go, then," he said. "Let's go admire my work, shall we?" He offered his arm. The gesture would have been polite—standard, even—had he not worn that biting smirk that spoke of his mockery. Still, there was a dangerous glint in his eye, fueled by his excitement and adrenaline, and so she had no choice but to accept his offer.

That didn't mean she wasn't glaring at him from the corner of her eye.

They led the way down the corridor, Gajeel a pace behind them and Jose huddled with his other mercenaries. She coughed and thought the dust would swallow her whole, but she found that if she tilted her head up, she could breathe easier.

Totomaru beamed and swept his free arm out. "And there you have it! One-thousand-year-old steel destroyed in a matter of seconds."

"Four thousand," she corrected bitterly.

"Hah! Even better. See, Redfox? Explosives will always destroy the finest of metals."

"That right?" he growled. "I heard that fists can beat the chattiest of mouths, too."

The mercenaries parted for Jose, and their leader stood at the mouth of the ruined doorway with his posture perfect and chin tilted upward. What remained of the doors were crashed into the wall, and rubble broke from the frame. The threshold supported the ceiling, and that was all that mattered. Murky, humid darkness waited for them beyond the door. Totomaru stepped forward, Miss McGarden still trapped around his arm, and a mercenary rushed to fetch him a torch.

"Air's so thick here," Totomaru mused. His torch only illuminated maybe a foot-wide circumference. "We'll be needing more torches, then."

"Gajeel," Jose said, and his pet obediently came to his master's side. "I'm sure there are other torches in there. Find them for me, and light these rooms up. You will return here once you are done. Don't keep me waiting too long, my boy."

Jose's bony hand landed on Miss McGarden's shoulder. "You haven't forgotten our terms and conditions, have you, Miss McGarden?" His smile was disgusting and far too wide; she faced forward so that she wouldn't have to see his sneer. He shoved her in front, earning a startled gasp from her, and then she realized that she would be accompanying his pet into the darkness.

She steeled herself with one last breath of somewhat-fresh air, and then inched her way into the conference rooms. The pet stalked behind her, his torch their only source of light, and prodded her further into the ruin.

Totomaru watched with a frown as every step Gajeel took dimmed his torchlight until it was an ugly orange glow, and then, nothing.

"I can throw some cherry bombs in there if you want!" he hollered into the darkness.

There was no response.

* * *

Miss McGarden took baby-steps. Her shoulders were hunched, her arms were locked around her sides, and she tried desperately to see her feet. She couldn't see them, and she felt as if she was just a wandering soul, detached from her body. She'd read about some ancient civilizations who believed that upon death, the soul rose up toward the sun, where it stayed and became a ray. Other cultures believed that the departed flew up into the heavens where they became stars, shining brightly in their constellations.

And then there were the Ferrians who, before they conquered the Viathans, once believed a death without bloodshed was no honorable death.

"Oi." She gasped when his arm wrapped around hers and pulled her closer. "Just breathe, short stack."

"I can't see," she breathed out. Her throat was dry and closing around her words. She tugged at her collar in an attempt to suck in more air. "I can't see anything."

"We're lookin' fer torches, shorty."

"But the traps—"

"Torches," he growled. She felt the vibrations rumbling through his chest, and she whimpered. She wanted far away from his presence, but that meant distancing herself from their only torch. "One thing at a time."

Yes, that was good. One thing at a time. Organize everything just so, focus on one task, complete it, and then move onto the next. Yes, that was logical. She could follow that.

But if sight became a useless sense, then they'd never find the torches.

"Can you see?" she blurted out. "I can't see. I can't see anything. Can you see if there are torches? If you can't see, then—"

"Yer ramblin', short stuff. I said one thing at a time."

"But if we can't see—" His fingers dug into her ribs, and she gasped at the unpleasant feeling.

"Keep talkin', and I won't find 'em," he muttered.

She was quiet for several moments, and then: "We were supposed to use a key to enter the door." His legs abruptly stopped moving, and she bounced back into his chest. "How come you didn't—"

"Keep it up, and I'll leave ya in the dark," he growled into her ear. By Spriggans and Fairies, she didn't know someone's voice could reach such a heart-stopping depth.

Heart-stopping, most certainly, but not mouth-stopping.

"That was Black Steel's—" Her sense of balance tipped over, and she found herself thrown to the ground. Scrambling and wincing at the cuts on her knees and hands, she looked over her shoulder to see him prowling away, the light of the torch fading with him.

"S-stop!" Her chains rattled and jingled. She hurried to her knees. "You can't just—" The light was gone. It was _gone,_ and she was _here, somewhere,_ in the dark. Cold sweat broke along her neck, and she hugged her knees. She made herself as small as possible and ducked into her thighs.

Miss McGarden willed her hearing to expand, hoping that she'd at least hear his footsteps. But nothing. Just her labored breaths and croaks, and then—

The dirt. The dirt was shifting under her, moving and sliding with faint hisses. With a shaking hand, she patted the floor. Yes, the dirt was moving. Or something was moving the dirt. Hunching into a crawl, she wormed her way to Mavis-knew-where.

The floor was moving, tilting and tipping. She clung to the ground, her heart in her throat and staccato gasps puffing out of her mouth.

And then the room was balanced.

Tucking herself into a ball, she didn't know if her eyes were closed or if it was just the black air surrounding her that robbed her of sight. She would not whimper or cry or sniffle. She would not give him that satisfaction.

She would, however, try again. "Please," she whispered. "Please."

Nothing.

Just the darkness of the fourth level of Karma.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello, everyone! So, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and as always, let me know what you think! :)**

 **Okay, so, a couple FYIs:**

 **I will be starting university again soon, and since it's my last year, I'm going to be up to HERE with work and job-hunting and such. That being said, I'm not abandoning my stories, but I will not be able to update very frequently. Sorry :(**

 **Secondly, I am thinking of writing an Edo!Gajevy story. I really liked Edolas Gajeel, and I think there would have been a really awesome (for lack of a better description) dynamic between Edolas Gajeel and Edolas Levy if they ever met. I'm a sucker for gentlemanly men and badass ladies. Would anyone be interested in reading an Edo!Gajevy fic?**

 **Thirdly, there's a lot of history I'm making up in Steel for Humans. Some of it is mentioned in this chapter (I introduced the fact that Levy may be a descendant of the "Viathans," which is another culture I created for the sake of the story), and I will be explaining enough of the history for you all to follow along without going, "Huuuuhh? The heck is she talkin' 'bout now?" But since I'm making up a backstory, this is a huge sandbox. I love playing in sandboxes. So I will be writing a prequel to Steel for Humans (probably after I'm done writing SfH) focused on Ferroc when it was in its Steel Age; it will take place several thousand years before SfH. I really like the ideas I'm brainstorming, and I think most of you will too ;)**

 **Okay okay, I will get to the end EVENTUALLY! So, fourthly:**

 **Thank you, thank you, thank you all so much for the favorites, reviews, alerts, all of it! :D :D :D Now, to reply to reviews:**

 **JadeOccelot: Oh, Gajeel is DEFINITELY connected to Karma. You're onto something there ;D**

 **xblood kittenx: Thank you! Sometimes I worry if I put too much detail in. Since the setting is based on my own imagination, though, I say more the merrier in terms of detail :D**

 **levyredfoxx3: I'm glad you're enjoying it! Although, I don't know if I'd say Gajeel smacking her around is cute (but you might be right that he is trying to protect her!)**

 **Usweasil: I will try my best!**

 **Criya Astleon: I hope I can entertain you throughout the story! :) Thanks!**

 **Mewhee89: I can't wait to write what happens next!**

 **Guest 1 (sorry for giving you a number; I just gotta differentiate between the Guests!): Ack, sorry for the confusion! He isn't a humanoid; everybody's human, here. Thanks for taking the time to read Steel for Humans :)**

 **Guest 2 (again, sorry for numbering!): Thank you! I have a lot of ideas for this story :)**


	4. Women and Snakes

He moved slowly throughout the conference rooms, if not cautiously. His torch illuminated only a foot-wide circumference, and if he'd let his mind seize the better of him, he'd swear that the sluggish air was trying to close in around that small bit of light.

Gajeel Redfox did not believe in ghosts, but karma, well…

He believed entirely in karma.

Once upon a time, these rooms would have been bustling with merchants, buyers and sellers alike, and even royalty would sometimes buy goods from the vendors. There would be the clinking of coin as exchanges were made, the flash of gold, the lengths of vibrant silks, the glint of newly forged steel swords, and the smooth conversations of conmen plying their craft.

On more than one occasion, his father had told him, brawls would erupt in the conference rooms, as well. With merchants came their bodyguards, of course, and unhappy merchants were known to be aggressive—either that or be disciplined by the ruthless Ferrians.

There was one such occurrence when a Ferrian king, hidden amongst the crowds of shoppers, struck down a vendor for backhanding a Viathan slave-girl. The girl, a rebellious thing that had earned more than her fair share of punishment and abuse, had tried to purchase scrolls from the merchant. If Gajeel remembered his father's stories correctly, the merchant accused the Viathan's money as being fraudulent, and after striking her across the cheek, grabbed her wrist to sever her hand.

Rather, the merchant would have followed through with that traditional Ferrian punishment, had it not been Black Steel's property he had just damaged.

Gajeel's knuckles strained against his gloves, and he scowled. _Black Steel._ The librarian had no business mentioning Ferroc's most prestigious ruler, and she had no business even _knowing_ about Black Steel. A foul taste filled his mouth, and he gnashed his teeth together. His mind was awhirl with thoughts ramming into one another, the most prominent of which centered around the fact that if Miss _Can't-Keep-Her-Damn-Trap-Shut_ McGarden knew about Black Steel, then she knew about his talisman.

A descendant of the Viathans or not, Miss McGarden had no _right._

The sand by his feet shifted, and he halted mid-stride to glance down. Moving his foot, he saw that the sand puckered in spirals away from him. The spirals deflated, leaving serpentine imprints in the sand. He could only guess as to how far the spirals spanned. A niggling thought at the back of his mind made his brow and temple twitch: he didn't know what these spirals were, but he was certain that if he hadn't dumped the librarian somewhere in the room, she'd be more than happy to tell him.

Putting his foot back down, he frowned when the toe of his boot nudged against a groove. He slid his boot, following that groove, and gradually turned his body. This was good; he could use the groove as a marker. Forget about Black Steel and his Viathan slave-girl.

 _One thing at a time._

Slowly, he paced what he thought to be the width of the room. He knew he wasn't facing back toward the entrance of the conference rooms, but whether or not he was turned left or right, that remained up in the humid air. A snort escaped his lips, and then he frowned: his partner was always telling him to _mind his surroundings,_ and here he was, turned about and following a jutted floor tile somewhere below the desert.

There was probably a word for his situation.

His torch illuminated a wall in front of him carved with drawings of people—Ferrians, most likely—engaged in combat with each other. The carvings took the natural three-dimensional form of the people and squished them in a two-dimensional resemblance, giving the pictures an unnatural angle that made the figures look stiff. Taking a small step to the right, he saw more pictures of the Ferrians: these depicted rows of men, armed with spears and swords, hunched over in reverence before a taller, broader man with wings sprouting from his back and horns aligning both sides of his forehead.

Gajeel shook his head. He turned to move further down the wall, but something reflecting the torchlight made him pause. Arching a brow, he noticed a shelf with a trench dug into it running along the wall. He had a hunch that the shelf bordered the entire perimeter of the room. Reaching forward, he dipped his fingers into the trench and brought his hand up to his face.

A lump of coal, shiny and dusted with something sooty and powdery. Smirking, he dropped the coal, rubbed his fingers together, and sniffed.

 _A-ha._

Flicking his fingers toward his torch, a sharp canine flashed when, upon contact with the flames, the powder sparked and spat. Chuckling a quiet _gihi,_ he dropped his torch on the shelf. Fire erupted in a long line, stretching through the room and bringing with it a dull orange glow. It was then that he realized how massive the conference rooms were; the main chamber in which he stood branched into separate rooms, hallways, stairs, and daises. The flames zig-zagged in a complex maze, some parts of the trail ending where the shelving was destroyed or, he surmised, where the fuel ran short.

The ceiling here was dome-shaped, and if he squinted, he could see the two-dimensional pictures dulled and eroded by time decorating the ceiling. The remains of tapestries hung from pillars and posts dug into the walls. An itch, starting from his toes and crawling up his legs, egged him forward to investigate the rooms that used to be full of commerce and the finest of mercantilism. He took a few steps until another spiral brushed through the sand near his feet.

With the room illuminated, now he could see what was causing the sand to shift and pucker. Cursing, he edged away from the spirals and looked over his shoulder.

He'd ventured further into the conference rooms than he thought, and there, closer to the entrance was the librarian, gasping and kicking up dirt. Swearing, he sprinted over to her, zigging and zagging in an effort not to step on the serpentine spirals.

 _Serpentine_ spirals. _Mind your surroundings, Gajeel._

* * *

Miss McGarden swallowed and counted her breaths, trying to maintain some semblance of calm in the pitch darkness of Karma. She held her knees tighter and closed her eyes. _One breath, two, three—exhale._ Running her tongue along her chapped lips, she dared to stretch one leg out and nearly leapt out of her skin when the sand shifted under her toes.

She'd spent enough years in Desierto to recognize those distinguishable hisses, and when cool, smooth scales glided over her foot, she gasped and pulled her leg back. All she could do was pray that the snake wasn't venomous and that it didn't have an appetite for humans. Amongst her books regarding history, she'd read her fair share of biology textbooks that described some species of snakes that could eat a person whole.

For the umpteenth time in her life, she wished she was not so small.

A _whoosh_ followed by the crackle of flame igniting sounded from behind her, and then the room—more appropriately, _chamber—_ was bathed in a muted orange. For the few panicked moments it took her eyes to adjust, she scrambled backward and searched for the snake.

There it was. Its head peeped out of the sand, and it regarded her with frequent flicks of its tongue. Holding her breath, she watched it slither further out of the sand. Her eyes darted along its back, following the black rectangular designs on its scales bordered with yellow flecks.

 _Oh._

Pursing her lips, she tilted her head to the side. The snake was longer than her arm. Slowly, she crawled away with her eyes still trained on the snake; even though this particular snake didn't have a taste for people, she knew that it was very, _very_ adept at springing forth and strangling anything it thought to be a threat.

Maybe she should have wished to be a bit smaller. That way, she wouldn't be a threat at all.

There were heavy, rushed footfalls behind her, followed by the sound of boots sliding in the dirt. An arm wrapped around her waist, and she screeched when she was pulled to her feet. Her words were nonsense as she flailed in an attempt to escape his clutches, but he held firm. She whirled her head toward him and gasped. He was going for his holster.

"No, _no!"_ She whipped her hand out. His finger had just tapped the trigger when her palm covered the muzzle of his revolver. "It's a kingsnake—it won't hurt us if we don't hurt it!" She thought her words would be deafened by his swears. With her hand around the barrel, he had no choice but to lower the gun.

He risked taking his eyes off of the devil slithering in the sand to glare murder into her eyes. He was met by her puffed cheeks, her furrowed brow, and that scrunched up button nose. She poked the arm still locked around her waist and continued, "It doesn't have any venom, either; the worst it can do is musk us!" She held her breath, one hand still gripping his revolver and the other digging into his studded forearm, and waited until he holstered his gun.

Only after the kingsnake slithered away did he holster his weapon. His movements were choppy, and as soon as the revolver was back in its rightful place on his vest, he turned her around to shake her shoulders. "Next time I pull out my gun," he snarled, "ya better have enough brains in that big head of yours to know not to put yer hand over the business end of it!"

"Well you were about to kill a snake for being curious!" she spat back. Her voice was hoarse from lack of water, and she sounded like a frog. Her chin jutted into a frown, and the corners of his mouth sloped into his familiar scowl.

"I coulda shot your hand off!"

"You could've shot its head off! We're the ones who walked into its territory, you—"

He shook her again for good measure. "Think I care about a damned snake? Lady, I woulda been doin' the world a favor if I killed it."

She huffed, her nostrils flaring, and they stared each other down: he with his scowl, and she with her pouty cheeks. Then, she blinked, her head tilting to the side, as she finally realized that his complexion was a tad pale and his brow was coated in sweat. "You're afraid of snakes," she said like she was reading a passage out of one of her beloved tomes.

"I ain't scared of a stupid snake," he growled.

"Yes, you are," she said. A hint of a smile touched her lips. "Not all of them are scary. Ferrians used to charm them and put on performances with them, you know."

"I ain't scared of snakes," he said. Releasing her, he turned to straighten his vest and sleeves. "I just don't like 'em." Something wooden was tapping against the ground, and he lifted his head to see the rest of the procession creeping through the dimly lit chamber.

"Huh." She lowered her eyes and fiddled with her cuffs. In a quieter voice, she added, "You don't seem to have a problem following them, though."

He slashed his eyes toward her, that tic starting in his brow again, and pressed his lips in a firm line. "Keep yer mouth shut," he growled.

"Or what?" she asked softly. She met his glare head-on. "Planning on leaving me behind again?" She knew she should have listened to him, for his entire body seemed to coil like the serpents he despised. He was readying for an attack, and she knew that she'd only be able to brace for whatever he had in mind.

He raised his hand, and then lowered it after she flinched. Grunting a _tch,_ he snatched her chin and ground out, "The dark ain't the scariest thing here, small fry."

Oh, by all that was steel and holy, she had the audacity to lift her head and challenge him in that ever-soft voice with, "Isn't it?" She caught him for a few seconds, and in that brief moment, his eyes flickered and his upper lip curled. Then he snarled and shoved her away with enough force for her cheek to turn and her neck to creak in protest.

"My, my."

The hairs along her arms and neck stood on end; Jose stood before them, surveying the room as if he was the one to order its construction. His pleased voice dripped with icky and yucky things that made her cringe and lower her eyes to the floor. Somehow, she found the courage to sneak a glance at the iron pet.

He was scowling. Of course.

"Well done, my boy," Jose purred. Totomaru sidled up beside Gajeel and smiled at the flames bordering the walls. "I trust our dear librarian wasn't too much trouble?" the Phantom leader asked with his thin lips curved into a sneer.

"Broad's a pain in the ass," Gajeel grunted. That earned him a frown from her and a pleased chuckle from Jose.

"Now, now," the Phantom leader said while tapping his staff, "you'll have plenty more opportunities to teach our dear Miss McGarden lessons, I'm sure. In fact," he paused and gestured for a mercenary behind him. "Boze, why don't you do the honors? I'm sure she's been up to _something_ troublesome; Viathans are known for their mischief and backtalk, after all."

Boze prowled forward. He cracked his knuckles and scrutinized her from head to toe. "It'd be my pleasure, boss."

"As for you two," Jose addressed Totomaru and his pet, "I want every corner from here to that archway searched for traps." Behind him, Boze grabbed their captive by her shirt and slapped her face. Jose kept his eyes on his pet: he had his arms crossed over his chest. "You will tell me if you find anything suspicious." _Slap._ "Once we've covered this room, I will return with one of you to the third floor. We'll make this our new rendezvous point." _Slap, slap._ "Boze? If she isn't screaming, you aren't hitting hard enough."

"Bitch is kinda cute," Boze snickered. "Didn't want to hurt that pretty face too much. But orders are orders." A yelp pierced the muggy air. Jose arched a slick brow upon noticing that his pet's biceps were bulging beneath his button-up and his forearms were constricting his chest. Apart from that, Gajeel held his usual impassive expression: mouth turned down and brow pinched.

Jose watched him for some time. The sound of flesh being beaten rang in the choking air around them. Finally, the Phantom leader nodded. "That is enough for now, Boze. Ah, yes, I knew red looked lovely on her. As for everyone else, start clearing this area." His mercenaries scattered into groups and began their sweep.

Totomaru edged closer to Gajeel and followed his gaze. The demolitions expert pursed his lips, raised his brow, and nodded. "Red does match her skintone, you know. But the color is a little bit too harsh on her, yeah? I think orange would look better, don't you?" They watched while Boze hauled her off to the side, giving her a kick in the ribs as a warning before joining them.

Boze wiped his nose and smirked at his comrades. "Enjoy the show, Redfox?"

Totomaru clicked his tongue and shook his head. "No one likes a fisher, Boze."

Boze shrugged and rubbed his bloody knuckles on his khakis. "Yeah? Well, fishin' or no, doesn't mean I didn't do a good job. Ain't that right, Redfox?"

If it wasn't for the fact that the veins in Gajeel's forearms stood out against his tanned skin, Totomaru would have assumed Boze's comments went unheard. The Element catalogued this little discovery in his mind. And then he frowned in confusion. Instead of glaring a horrible death at Boze, Gajeel was staring at the ground.

"There's a snake by yer foot."

Totomaru hooted as a shrill, feminine scream— _snake! where! I hate snakes!—_ erupted from Boze, followed by the mercenary kicking and hopping about.

* * *

Miss McGarden awoke with sand in her eyes, dried blood cracking along her mouth and jaw, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She blinked and rubbed at her eyes. A hiss escaped her lips as her fingers prodded a lump forming on her temple. Biting the inside of her cheek, she gently tapped the area and guessed that the lump had to be the size of a golf ball.

And it was _just_ starting to swell.

She struggled to pull herself into a sitting position. Her neck creaked and her vertebrae cracked. Pain lanced through her ribs, and it was all she could do not to cry out at the sudden feeling of a spike driving upward into her lungs. Carefully, she tucked herself back into the wall and hoped no one had noticed her moment of weakness.

She must have slept longer than she thought. After Boze had pummeled her, the only logical thing she could think of to do was keep herself out of sight and out of the way of the mercenaries. That, inevitably, led to her resting her eyes.

She had planned on only a few minutes, really. Just a few minutes to forget the pain and focus on the purple hues of her closed eyelids.

Now, the room was bustling with mercenaries, and judging by the number of them, Jose must have retrieved the rest of his men from the upper level. Mercenaries were huddled in groups throughout the chamber, some clinking flasks together, a few helping themselves to jerky, and others playing cards. The Phantom master himself was nowhere to be found, but the demolitions expert and the Boscan were rummaging through explosives. Occasionally, the chatter of _Oui, oui!_ rang over the din of mercenaries.

This was certainly not what the conference rooms were constructed for. The Ferrians were probably rolling in their graves.

She sighed and leaned her head back. Carefully, she rubbed her side, knowing that it'd be black and purple soon. She lifted the hem of her shirt to find angry red marks along her side. Nothing was broken, as far as she could tell, but she noticed with a heavy heart and frown that her ribs were showing. Tugging her shirt back into place, she quirked a brow when a different pain registered in her body.

It targeted the small of her back and her abdomen. Quickly, she flopped her button-down over her lap and slipped a hand inside of her khakis. _Mavis, please not_ this. Her suspicions were confirmed after her fingers came back red and sticky. Breathing out of her nose, she closed her eyes and dipped her chin to her collarbones. _No, no, no. This_ was the last thing she needed. As if waiting for her to realize her condition, the pain became a consistent throb that twisted her gut and scored her lower back.

Her khakis were dark enough that perhaps the blood wouldn't show when it bled through—and it _would_ bleed through. At least, this is what she told herself. The embarrassment of not having any absorbent cotton and _bleeding through in front of a group predominantly made of men,_ well. That would show clear as day on her face.

She could just _imagine_ the insults and abuse Boze would throw her way after discovering she was menstruating. Just the thought had her tucking her legs closer to her body and hugging herself.

Then, more realization dawned upon her. Menstruation was a process scheduled, something ultimately ruled by nature. With the trickle of blood between her legs also came an approximation of how many days had passed since she was abducted.

Rather, since _he_ abducted her.

Eighteen days, give or take. Her cycles were usually due at the end of the month, and if she was correct, she had been torn from her world for close to three weeks.

The worst part of it all was that she knew there would be more days, more nights and hours of not knowing what time it was, or how much time passed. She could rely on her monthly flow for approximations of time, but that was only efficient if she lived until her next cycle.

If she lived…

"Oi."

She slapped her hands over her mouth after pealing out a startled squeak. Crawling and tangling her chain links in the process, she looked up to find _him_ standing beside her with his hands shoved into his pockets. The huff that she uttered next was followed by a frown and bright hazel eyes. "What?" she hissed, the sound coming out as a croak. Her tongue stuck to her cheek, and dumbly, she flapped her lips. Averting her eyes, she hoped that he'd just walk away and leave her well enough alone.

Mavis, she wished that either of them would sink in the sand, just so that she didn't have to have his eyes roaming over her face. She must have been red, purple, and blue, and there was no hiding Boze's handiwork from him. Even when she turned her head to the side and disheveled her greasy hair to hide half of her face, she still felt his eyes prickling against her skin.

"Thought you'd be lookin' at the pictures," he said at last. She heard him suck in a breath, and they both watched the tail-end of a kingsnake slither away from them. "Was wonderin' if you knew what they were."

She snorted and shuffled in the sand so that her back faced him. "Why would I tell you?" She heard something cracking. Chancing a glance over her shoulder, for _no one_ questioned Jose's prize, she hunched her shoulders. His hands were balled into fists, and his eyes were pummeling the floor. "So that's what this is about," she croaked. That pulled his attention from wherever it went, and his crimson eyes burned her. "Might as well get it over with, then." Mavis, she needed water.

"The hell are you ramblin' about now?" he growled. "Just wanted to know—" His nostrils flared and he stared at the carvings in the walls. "Just wanted to know about the damn pictures, is all." By steel and iron, he didn't think someone was capable of holding such scrutiny in their eyes. But she was all caution and hesitance and distrust.

"Fine," he barked, and was rewarded with another squeak from her. "If ya don't know, half-pint, then just say so." He turned to leave. The jingling of her chains cued his pause, his smirk hidden from her, and when he turned around, she was leaning on the wall for support. His hand reached out to steady her arm. She was quick to glare and shrivel her nose at him as if he would set her aflame.

Stumbling out of his reach, she focused her attention on the carvings. "The style is called 'frieze.' It's a type of artwork that takes up most, if not all, of the length of a wall, ceiling, column—anything, really." She hurried away from him to point at carvings depicting men seated around a group of women with their arms stretched above their heads. Some of the men had their faces covered with masks. "This was known as 'The Maiden Dance.' All of the men here are of royal blood. They'd gather the prettiest virgins who were of age, and the girls would dance for them. The royals would then choose which girl they liked the best, and well, _you know."_

"That right?"

"No." Her shoulders quaked, and it took him a moment to realize that she was giggling. Quietly. At him. "It is called The Maiden Dance, but the women are of royal blood. The men with masks are royalty too; the ones without are suitors. Males of royal blood would invite the suitors to watch their sisters, cousins, nieces—whatever—dance. If the suitors liked the dance, and the male royalty thought their interest to be genuine, they'd escort the suitors on a 'private' walk with their female royalty throughout the capital.

"If the suitors didn't like the dance," she said, lowering her voice, "the suitors would have a body part amputated. Some lost fingers, others toes; it all depended on how insulted the male royals were." She nodded at his quiet "huh" and edged further down the wall to trace another carving. "This one—see how only some of them have their spears raised? They're sparring with one another. It was mandatory for boys, once they were seven years old, to begin their training. Before the Viathan influence on Ferroc, the boys would be collected from their families and be placed in the barracks. Ferroc was an extremely militant kingdom, and so they would have to train their armies, guards, and border patrol early."

She paused, letting him digest this information, and took a step closer to him. From beneath her eyelashes, she peered at him. He was studying the carvings, raking his eyes back and forth across the frieze. A crease was set in his brow, his lips were twisted, and the glint of metal winked at her from between his teeth. "That right?" he murmured around the bolt.

She nodded and cleared her throat. Her voice hitched as she added, "Even Black Steel was taken from his father to undergo his training."

The bolt fell from his mouth, and the dull metallic thud it made in the sand hung between them like a heavy weight. He turned raging eyes on her and took one stride so that he was inches from her. Instinct drove him to grab her arm and shove her to the ground. The cry she yelped once he dug his fingers into her flesh drove him to recoil as if _she'd_ burned him.

He loosened his grip, and there was no stopping her from falling and scraping her palms through the sand. As soon as she caught herself, he was already storming away to find a place where little librarians didn't go sticking their noses into business that was not their own.

* * *

Gajeel found recluse in an area where the shelving was broken and shadow spilled onto the floor. He leaned against the wall, willing the darkness to cloak him, and counted his breaths. By Ferroc and Viath, the chit didn't know when to call it quits, did she? Swearing, he shook his head and snarled.

This was not good. This was just _dandy,_ actually: having the little know-it-all blabber on and on about Black Steel. He needed to find a way to shut her up, and fast. Which, he knew, would be difficult, given how impassioned she was about her history.

 _His_ history, to be precise. _His,_ and only his.

And that begged the question: just how much did the girl know? There were the children's stories of Black Steel— _keep out of trouble, and you will not have to bear Black Steel's cross—_ that were common enough in Desierto. She no doubt knew all of them, probably verbatim. There were colloquial sayings, too: _Black Steel must have given him a sudden burst of strength._ She probably knew those, as well.

He needed to know. And fast.

And if Boze took one more step closer to him with that leer on his face, he may have to hit something. Hard.

"Saw what you did over there, Redfox," Boze said. He jerked his thumb behind him and smirked. "Broad deserves to be roughhoused, don't ya think? Makin' us tiptoe around her like she's damned royalty. The hell she thinks she is anyway?" Boze sidled up next to him, but had to squeeze his way since Gajeel hadn't moved an inch in invitation. "She's got me thinkin', though," Boze said as he uncorked his flask.

Gajeel rolled his eyes.

"Blue hair? That a Viathan thing, huh?" Boze took a gulp and then nodded his head in the librarian's direction across the chamber. She was curled up on the floor, her face hidden in her knees. "Got me wonderin', alright. Think her pubes are blue, too? C'mon, Redfox, you're a man. Think they're blue and wispy? Or short tight curls?" Boze paid no mind to Gajeel's scowl; he was too busy licking his lips to notice his knuckles were digging into his gloves.

"This conversation," Totomaru said as he joined them, "is disgusting. Shame on you, Boze, for speaking so poorly of a lovely young woman."

"Juvia must agree," the female Element said as she, too, stood before Gajeel and Boze. "And Juvia must also inquire as to whether or not Boze is wondering what color Juvia's pubic hair is, as well."

Boze spluttered and choked on his drink. She was staring at his crotch while opening and closing her fist. Excusing himself, he scrambled away from them, hopping and almost tripping on his hurried way out.

Totomaru grimaced and held up a stick of dynamite. "Ever get that feeling of just sticking one of these somewhere the sun doesn't shine?"

"No," Gajeel and Juvia said in unison.

"Juvia has other means," she said.

"Prefer to beat 'em bloody," Gajeel said.

"Hmph," Totomaru tutted. "Well, _I'm_ going to go find somewhere the sun doesn't shine." He glanced up at the ceiling. "Well, another place the sun doesn't shine. Pardon me." Once Totomaru left to go do—well, whatever he was going to do—Gajeel's only company was Juvia. She stood, blinking at him with her blank face and all-knowing eyes. That stare would make anyone else squirm, but he knew her ways well enough.

"Gajeel wants to ask Juvia something," she said at last. "Gajeel needs a favor."

* * *

Boisterous laughter snatched Miss McGarden from her fitful nap. She must have slept with her mouth open, for her gums and tongue were drier than before. Groaning, she flapped her lips and looked about the chamber to find the mercenaries playing cards, chortling and slapping each other on the back. They threw their heads back to guzzle down their flasks. Her eyes traced every stray drop leaking from their lips and chin.

Settling her head back on her knees, she made to lull herself back into another restless nap, but started upon realizing that there was a shadow tucked away further down the chamber.

 _Him._ Only he could drag the shadows out to hide himself in them. Oh, the sight of him made her veins thrum with boiling blood. Seated as if he was a king, like he had every right to just plop himself down in the sand and take a breather—

He sat, legs tucked so that his knees were bent outward, and smeared something foamy along his jawline and cheeks. In his hand was something that reflected the torchlight, and he glided it across his jaw.

Her boiling blood rushed to her cheeks from watching him do something as mundane and domestic as shaving. Miss McGarden averted her eyes and bit her lip. She didn't need the mirror propped in front of him to know that her skin, from forehead to chest, was flushed. Cursing her Viathan curiosity for making her steal a peep again, she held her breath.

His ruby gaze was focused on her, his knife clearing a path through the foam on his cheeks. He wiped the blade down with a cloth, and then cupped his hand into the bucket to wash away the foam.

 _Water._

With an audible _smack,_ she peeled her tongue from the roof of her mouth and licked her dry lips. The copper taste of blood assaulted her. Lifting her chin, she glanced between him and the bucket when he washed another freshly shaven spot again. He arched a brow and swept the blade down his neck.

Maybe it was the fact that it was such a domestic activity that made her blush, or the fact that she'd tossed the last canteen he'd offered her. She smacked her lips together and rested her head on her crossed arms. Perhaps if she closed her eyes, she'd wake up less parched. And in less pain.

Wishful thinking.

Instead, she was brought to her senses by someone clearing their throat in front of her. Flashing her eyes open, she looked up to find her, the water woman, standing before her with a small smile on her face. Her boots and coat were dusty, her curled hair was still frizzy, but Mavis above she wore a genuine smile, even if she was the enemy.

"Juvia did not mean to frighten Miss McGarden," she said smoothly. Her ocean-blue eyes were deep and captured attentions, and Miss McGarden found that she could not look anywhere else. This woman stood with her posture straight and her head held high. Surely, being the only woman amongst the mercenaries, she must have suffered the inevitable patronizing from the men: _a woman isn't expected to hold her own in this world._

But this woman held herself with a regal line to her back, much like how Miss McGarden's employer did.

"Gajeel told Juvia to give you this." Somehow, Miss McGarden was able to drag her eyes away from Juvia's face to her hands, and—oh Mavis and blessed canteens. In seconds, Miss McGarden had snatched it from her, popped the cap off, and chugged it down as if it was the last water on earthland. Pain lanced through her body, but after the first drop, she was numb to it.

"Gajeel also wanted Juvia to tell Miss McGarden not to spill any of it this time."

The cuts on her lips and chin reopened. She could hardly care, though: the water was sweet—or maybe that was the taste of her tears slipping down her cheeks—and glorious and pure and _water._ The tang of blood accompanied the normal, normal, _normal_ taste of water. Miss McGarden's breath hitched, and in fear of choking and losing any precious drops, she popped her lips away from the canteen.

"Juvia would also like to apologize to Miss McGarden," the Element said. The Phantom mercenary took a step closer and cast a cursory glance around them before digging into her pack. "Juvia did not mean to stare, but Juvia happened to look at Miss McGarden during a private moment. Juvia could not help but to notice, and since Juvia is a woman as well…" She produced a rolled up length of cotton from her bag. Juvia's grin was gentle, and Miss McGarden felt even more the idiot, for all the librarian could do was gawk.

"Juvia will make sure no one watches," she said with a solemn set to her brow. She turned, eyes sweeping to and fro the room. Any mercenary who dared look their way was met with her icy stare. As soon as she heard the shuffling sound of fabric folding, Juvia said, "Juvia has also heard that Miss McGarden is a descendant of the Viathans. Juvia is also a descendant." She combed her fingers through her hair and smiled. "Of course. Juvia was wondering…" The Element paused, as did the sound of shuffling, to glance across the room.

Taking in a breath, Juvia said, "Juvia was wondering if Miss McGarden could tell Juvia about the Viathans." Another pause, and then the sound of shuffling resumed. "Juvia is sad to admit that she does not know much about her ancestry." She eyed the shadow Gajeel was lurking in.

"Haven't you read the books?" Miss McGarden gasped, realizing how rude her question must have sounded. Juvia, however, chose to hum in thought.

"She has," Juvia said, "but Juvia was wondering if Miss McGarden could tell her more about U'Avij and Yvell."

"The Blue Queen and Black Steel's bride?" This time, Miss McGarden's gasp was filled with wonder and excitement. "You've read about those two?"

Juvia smiled from her tone. "Many would label Yvell as a whore—"

"Yvell was _not_ a whore," Miss McGarden snapped.

Juvia's shoulders jumped, and she looked to the side, as close to Miss McGarden as she could while still respecting her privacy. "Juvia did not mean any offense! Juvia merely wanted to say she appreciated Miss McGarden's proper title of Yvell." She scanned the room to make sure none of the mercenaries had heard them. "Juvia has always liked stories of the Blue Queen," she added in a whisper.

Finished wrapping the cotton in her undergarments, Miss McGarden inclined her head in shame and murmured an apology. It was strange speaking to Juvia's back, and even though Miss McGarden knew that she was the _enemy,_ she had found some light in this dark ruin: Juvia appreciated her history, unlike _someone_. "Did you know that U'Avij received her prefix _U'_ after Black Steel adopted Viathan Scripture into Ferroc's alphabet? _U'_ was used by Ferrians to signify someone of royal blood. Before Black Steel acknowledged her as royalty, the Blue Queen was just Avij.

"Of course, that was after he conquered Viath and enslaved her people," Miss McGarden said. "The Viathans worshipped the Aquar, their goddess of sea and sky. Avij ruled with the guidance of Yvell, who was a priestess of the Aquar, and Yvell would interpret the goddess's wishes through ceremonies and prayer."

"Avij and Yvell were the ones to design the aqueducts throughout Desierto," Juvia said with a fond lilt to her voice. "Juvia is glad that the aqueducts are still in use today." Juvia frowned when her comrade, from his shadow, snorted.

"That's not entirely accurate," Miss McGarden said. She squirmed and smiled—she couldn't help herself. For the first time, someone who genuinely appreciated history was acknowledging Ferroc and wanted to know more about the ancient civilization. There were no glares, no warning looks, no hurtful hands and no angry shoves. Just Juvia.

Just conversation.

Maybe Miss McGarden's research hadn't gone to waste.

And then, Miss McGarden noticed that shadow again. "Black Steel gathered his best designers, architects, and engineers to build the aqueducts throughout his different city-states," Miss McGarden said. "Avij allowed him access to the Viathans' blueprints while Yvell supported his decision." Gajeel was staring at his fellow Phantom mercenary, the foam on his other cheek all but forgotten. A frown pulled at the corners of Miss McGarden's mouth.

"And Black Steel?" Juvia asked. "What was his name? Juvia thinks U'Black Steel sounds too ridiculous to be the name of Ferroc's greatest king."

Miss McGarden grinned and bit her lip, not caring that the skin was tender and sore. Oh, no, she didn't care a fig, for she knew that _he_ was too busy watching his comrade to notice the meek little librarian shaking her head at him. "Not many people know his name."

"And do you?"

"Of course," she grinned. "This is my research. Black Steel, Avij, Yvell—this is my _research._ This is what I'm trying to convince the museum of what actually happened in history. Not many people know Black Steel's name because not many people acknowledge he ever existed."

"Miss McGarden," Juvia said, "what was his name?"

"I'll tell you," Miss McGarden said, "as soon as you tell me why he sent you here to ask for him. Please."

"Juvia—" The Element hunched her shoulders and whirled around. Her face had fallen: her brows were pulled together, her mouth was tilted in— _guilt?—_ and her eyes were big and wallowing. "Juvia—Juvia—Gajeel asked Juvia to—" The Element paused, and in that time, her expression smoothed over into something blank and unreadable. Those deep eyes hardened into ice. "Juvia will take her leave now." She snatched the canteen from Miss McGarden, corked it, and weaved her way through the mercenaries.

As for the librarian, she sat studying her palms, all the while feeling a crimson gaze scorching her. Somewhere, she summoned the strength to lift her head. If she expected his expression to be dripping with malice, she instead found herself looking at a face laced with frustration.

And if he expected her to be full of smug satisfaction, he would only find her jutted chin and shining eyes.

* * *

 **A/N: Incredibly late over here; I wake up in 5 hours for work. I'm sorry :( I'll respond to reviews tomorrow after hours. But thank you to everyone, and as always, let me know what you think.**

 **Okay, so again HUGE thank you to everyone who has reviewed, read, favorited, followed, etc. etc. I'm very new to the Fairy Tail fandom (I haven't even finished watching all of the anime yet!), so I was a bit iffy about writing this. I've spent the past few years only writing Skyrim (which, if any of you read my Skyrim fanficton Normalcy Undone, does NOT mean I have abandoned NU; I'm just experimenting in different fandoms!), so I wasn't sure how well I'd do outside of the Elder Scrolls universe.**

 **I guess I'm doing a good job!**

 **And just a little FF, fun fact here: if I was ever in a ruin with snakes, oh heeeellll no. Mm-mm. Nuh uh. No way, Jose. Gotta bounce, that's it, we're done here. Totomaru, gimme those explosives because I'm taking the devils with me. I'm really scared of snakes :(**

 **Okay, so now to reply to Chapter 3 reviews:**

 **JadeOccelot: First off, thank you for following the story so far! And thanks for checking out my Edo!Gajevy fanfiction; I'm glad you're enjoying both :) And yeah, that necklace is definitely needed for something else later on; all will be revealed in time ;) And the general consensus seems to be everybody hates Boze. Including this author XD**

 **Guest 1 (sorry for numbering!): Thank you! It's taken some time for me to get comfortable with my style, and I'm always looking to improve :)**

 **AyaEisen: Thank you :D I was worried how I would portray the environment since I sometimes have trouble picturing anime characters in real-life places. Karma is supposed to resemble Ancient Egyptian/Mesopotamian ruins, and if I have succeeded in just getting the general color DIRTY ORANGE BROWN down of the environment, I consider that a success :) And yes, Gajeel has his secrets. So does Levy ;)**

 **Guest 2 (sorry for numbering!): Ugh, I know right? He's such a jerk for just dumping her in the dark. And thank you! I'm glad you think it's original :)**

 **Usweasil: Thanks for following the story so far; that means a lot! I hope the new chapter lived up to your expectations :)**

 **levyredfoxx3: Heehee, yes I knew what you were saying :D Hope you enjoy the new chapter!**

 **xblood kittenx: Thank you! That's a huge compliment for you to give, and I am happy to know that I have improved as a writer over the years :) I used to SUCK at writing detail and giving the right amount of information without drowning my readers (sometimes I still do; sorry!). And heehee, I think we were all ready to clobber Gajeel for leaving her like that. Hope you enjoy the new chapter!**

 **Okay, and since there are reviews for Chapter 4, and there seems to be some confusion/speculation, I'm gonna reply to those here. I won't clear everything up (that would defeat the purpose of the story, no?), but hopefully what I will say will help you all get a better understanding of this AU. And, of course, help you develop your theories :) Please, I love hearing your ideas and thoughts; they're awesome!**

 **JadeOccelot: Yeahhh, that snake scene from Indi, eh? Not quite the same as it, but still: SNAKES! Heehee, just wait until we get to the boulder scene ;) As for Gajeel being a descendant of Black Steel: Gajeel definitely has ties to Karma, and it's said that Ferroc's history is Gajeel's history. As for Black Steel's real name, I'll give you a hint: look at the names of the Blue Queen and Black Steel's Bride, U'Avij and Yvell. I think you'll get it ;)**

 **Mewhee89: Howdy! Thanks for reading so far :D Okay, so yes, Karma has been lost for centuries. A looong time. Long long time. Black Steel is dead; everyone from Ferroc's Steel Age is dead (it was a long time ago, after all!). I will say this to help you: As for the frieze, I'm drawing a lot of influence from Ancient Egyptian pictures, and a lot of those pictures had men with animal heads, tails, etc; it's all symbolism. I'll delve into this more in the story, but think about how Ancient Egyptians worshiped so many different gods that explained the various phenomena of Nature. Osiris, Isis, Ra, etc. etc. The frieze depicting the man with a tail and wings is symbolism, and I will explain who that person is in the story. All will be revealed in time ;)**

 **deblovesdragon: Hey! Thanks for reading the latest chapter :) Yeah, I noticed that too about stories: where the heck is Aunt Flo? It sucks, but it's accurate, right? I mean, just because someone's kidnapped doesn't mean the monthly stops, yeah? And oh yeah, everyone is out for Boze. ...Let's get him while he's sleeping...**

 **Andrea: Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it so far :D**


	5. The Dragon's Eyes

"If you are done taking your sweet time, Miss McGarden, I would like to have this room searched before our next meal. Don't keep us in suspense, now."

Miss McGarden frowned more from the passage she was reading than from the chiding drip to Jose's words. The Elements were all in attendance, and so was Jose's pet. The other mercenaries lingered some ways behind them, shifting on their feet and glancing between one another. Jose stood before the first sealed doorway in the conference rooms, inspecting a pair of rubies between his bony fingers. Like the other doors in Karma, this one was made of steel. It was easily the width of five people—maybe more—and along the perimeter were small, diamond-shaped engravings that curved and looped to eventually meet in the middle of the door.

Scales. The engravings were scales carved into the metalwork, rusted with time but still holding their grooves and edges. She could only imagine how much time went into crafting such magnificent work, and again she found herself marveling over the Ferrians' art of welding. Where the scales met, they formed the two halves of the door handles which, Miss McGarden could see, were shaped into a dragon's head. The beast's mouth was open in a raging snarl, and its hollow eyes—courtesy of Jose plucking the dusty rubies from the carved sockets—were bordered by those same three wisps that lined the hallway leading to the conference rooms. She prayed that there weren't any darts hiding in those empty eyes.

"There aren't any descriptions on any individual room; just an overall explanation on what the rooms were for," she said.

"I think you can do better than that, my dear."

She wetted her lips and started to read, " _Revoc hesh'hir ura porkel nav'hir uut menhos egur. Sha'vat i'l hesh'hir, mekkos tir rel un-haru eshep anac."_

Behind her, Gajeel sucked in a breath. She hoped he'd choke on it.

" _Mehek re nesh kibbet eshep, aro anac hos se'nnep,"_ she continued, sparing the Phantom leader a glance.

"The hell is she sayin'?" Boze grumbled. "Bitch is probably cursing us, for all we know." Several other mercenaries murmured their agreement and prowled closer to the librarian. They froze in their tracks upon the pet angling himself toward them.

"Hopefully just you," Totomaru mused to himself. "I'm innocent, you see; I wasn't the one who took a leak on her. If you wake up and you're missing something very important between your legs, I think we'll know for certain if she's cursed you."

"The hell did you just say—"

"Here we will gather together in our capital. Goods will be traded in our halls of iron and gold," she translated. "Those who cannot pay the gold price, will pay the iron price. At least," Miss McGarden explained, "that's a rough translation. It means that if someone couldn't pay for their goods, and they attempted to steal them, they'd be punished. Usually by the severing of a hand, sometimes a foot so that they may never be able to run away from another theft. The author has many embellishments, and if you look at this particular passage—" She bit her tongue after Gajeel scuffed the toe of his boot along her foot and narrowed her eyes at Jose's pet. Gajeel, in turn, did not find her pouty nose and scorching eyes threatening in the least.

He found them to be reminders that she'd go flapping her gums whenever she damned well pleased.

"Is there gold in there, Miss McGarden?" Jose asked. He tapped his staff against the floor.

"When Ferroc was still a great civilization, of course," she said. "But I do not know for certain if there is still gold in there." She hunched her shoulders when the Phantom leader tightened his fingers around the rubies. "There is more to the passage," she murmured.

"Then spit it out already, dear girl."

" _Mehek ya Ferr'oc helek hit'hur mazir ya Anac'Atelim._ Those of Ferroc are under the eyes of the Anac'Atelim," she finished. She looked between the rubies in Jose's hand and the dragon-head door handles.

Gajeel's eyes widened. Juvia, from her place across from him, watched Gajeel's every move.

"And what, Miss McGarden, is this Anac'Atelim?" Jose asked. His fingers drummed along his staff, and his mouth was pinched in a thin line. Gajeel's glare pounded her back.

"It was their god," she said. "In Fioran, it can be translated into the 'Iron Dragon' or 'serpent'—Ferrians had the same word for 'serpent' and 'dragon.' They believed that the Anac'Atelim was the child of the Sun because He could fly the skies without being burned. They believed His roar gifted their lands with ores and metals to forge their weapons. The kings of Ferroc were thought to be the Anac'Atelim reincarnated as Man."

"That's all swell and good, my dear librarian," Totomaru said with a dubious tilt to his brow, "but dragons don't exist."

"You're right," she agreed, "but you can't dismiss the fact that dragons are commonly depicted in folklore of many cultures."

"Ah, yes," Totomaru sighed. "The typical 'princess locked in her tower,' I'm guessing?"

"Think about it," she urged. There was a spark in her eye that made Gajeel shift on the balls of his feet. After the stunt he pulled earlier with Juvia, she ignored his and the water woman's existence.

She also didn't pay any heed to Jose gripping the rubies so tightly that the rough edges must have been cutting into his palm. "Every culture has an evil or forbidden figure in their religion. Dragons are usually drawn to have horns and breathe fire," Miss McGarden said. Totomaru straightened at the mention of flames. "Even though the Ferrians believed the Anac'Atelim breathed steel and iron—think of that as the kings of Ferroc wielding swords and spears crafted from steel or iron—He was still described to be a dragon.

"Modern Fiorans believe that the Demon Lord Zeref, who controls a beast that has horns and breathes fire, is a devil. Devils are powerful and meant to be feared." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "It's all symbolic; the Ferrians needed their enemies to fear them, and what better way to do that than by saying their rulers were devils?"

"Then it will be in your best interest, my dear Miss McGarden, that these devils have gold." Jose motioned for his men closer to the door. "Will an explosive do?"

Totomaru pursed his lips and glanced at his cart. "They'll get the door, alright, but…" He frowned and fiddled with a stick of dynamite. "If we're dealing with devils, I don't want to drag us to hell."

"And I suppose a crowbar won't work?" Jose tilted his chin toward his pet, but his mocking eyes remained on Miss McGarden.

Gajeel shook his head. "This thing's sealed from the inside. Gonna have to ram it." Miss McGarden, too disgusted with the pet to glare at him, settled with glowering at the floor.

" _Oui, oui!"_ Sol chirped. He jittered and hovered by the librarian. "I 'ave been dying to see Aria break something down. It will be _magnifique, non?"_

A large, bulky mercenary inclined his head. He was taller and broader than the pet, and his eyes were hidden by the low rim of his hat. Miss McGarden's knuckles tightened around her tome, and she found herself taking a step back. The mercenary's shoulders hitched; he was sobbing and not bothering to conceal it. "It will be so sad to see it crumble, break, and snap."

"Sad," Jose agreed with a sneer slithering on his lips, "but entirely necessary, my dear Aria." Without another word, the behemoth Aria shrugged out of his coat, neatly folded it, and slipped back into the bulk of mercenaries. His steps were silent, eerily so for such a brawny man, and the only evidence of his movements was the slight breeze they stirred in the humidity. Miss McGarden gasped as he lifted a long beam and hauled it back to his master; for just one man to carry it—let alone lift the beam—was flabbergasting. Miss McGarden crept away, hoping that the mercenaries would pay her no mind, and hugged the tome to her chest.

She, however, paid the mercenaries her entire mind. Jose didn't have to utter a single command. His strongest mercenaries lined themselves on either side of the beam. Among the mercenaries was the pet. He had tossed his vest aside and rolled his sleeves up while joining Aria.

Totomaru sniffed and tilted his chin. "Don't look at me like that, Redfox. My strengths come from these beauties." He gestured to his explosives. "I'll just be here, admiring the work."

"Priss," Gajeel grunted. The mercenaries wrapped their arms around the beam and planted their feet in the ground. Counting off, they lifted the battering ram. This was it: they were going to destroy a piece of art older than themselves without a single drop of remorse. Just batter it down, clear away the rubble, and continue onward in the ruin. Miss McGarden didn't want to watch, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to peel her eyes away. How _could_ she?

Keeping their breaths even and deep, they paced backward a good distance from the door, halted to readjust their weight, and then—

" _No!"_

All heads turned toward the librarian. She had her hands covering her mouth, and her knees shook so much that her chains rattled. Jose lifted his hand, and his mercenaries lowered the beam. Their leader crossed the short distance to the librarian and grasped her chin.

"No?" he repeated. There was too much satisfaction in his voice, as if he'd been expecting her outburst. Behind the Phantom leader, Gajeel willed the idiot girl to look at him. She refused to, though, and looked everywhere but at him. He cursed her stubborn streak and mouthed one word over and over again.

 _No._

Miss McGarden swallowed and struggled to find her words. "Th-there could be traps," she said in a meek, timid voice that she hardly recognized as her own. By Mavis, was this what fear and captivity did to a person? "You could trigger a trap," she added in hopes that the leader would believe her.

Jose studied her for a moment, taking in her dirty cheeks, bloody mouth, wide eyes full of fear and—

He cocked a brow at this discovery. Determination. His little captive was determined. He would have to teach her a lesson or two, then.

"Perceptive as always, my dear," he mused. "No doubt your keen wit was an asset at your precious museum." Jose trailed a finger down her cheek. Her face twisted in disgust, and he grinned. Then, his fingers locked around her jaw and hauled her up so that she had no choice but to look at him. "But this, my sweet librarian, is _my_ ruin. It is _mine_ to do with as I please. If the floor falls out from under us, it will be under my order; if the ceiling caves in, it will be under _my_ order; if the walls tighten around us, it will be under _my order."_

She knew there would be fresh bruises where his fingers dug into her chin, but her skin be damned; she couldn't replace the unfazed, calculating look on her face with the one of fear he no doubt desired from her. He was displeased and angered with her tilted brow and searching eyes, she could see. Perhaps _this_ was what captivity did to a person: it made their emotions as stable as a marble teetering upon a needlepoint.

Jose wanted fear. She did not know where her fear had gone; she only knew it had shriveled the moment he lay claim to something that was not his, not hers, not anyone's. How could she cower from his arrogance? Ferroc wasn't his— _Karma_ wasn't his. Karma belonged to history, to ancient pages and to tours and exhibits and presentations. Karma did not belong to men with bony fingers and slicked moustaches. Ferroc's jewel belonged to the world, and only the world.

And she was not the only one unimpressed with his words.

"But if you insist, my dear," Jose continued. His mouth stretched in a sneer, revealing his crooked teeth, and there was a sharp gleam in his eye. "Then you won't mind staying close to the door to make sure these 'traps' don't find any of us."

His arrogance, she would not tremble from. This situation, however, she could allow her eyes to widen and for her chains to rattle. He left her there, nearest to the door, and safely retreated to let his men batter the door down. With a nod, his mercenaries lifted the beam again.

Shoving her pride in a place where none would find it, she finally looked at _him._ He quickly looked elsewhere, training his sights on those dragon-head handles. There would be no stopping the mercenaries now. Pacing backward, muscles coiling and energy gathering in powerful arms and braced legs—then shouting, the mercenaries sprung forth, eating up the distance between the blunt end of the ram and the door with their punishing strides.

Beam and door collided, the mercenaries grunted as the impact swam up their arms and legs, and then Jose's men retraced their steps. The behemoth leading them, Aria, sobbed and cried out his apologies— _Sorry; I am so sorry!—_ after every mechanical blow. Jose spurred them on with shouts of _again, again!_ and Sol chittered his excited _oui, oui! Magnifique!_

Miss McGarden ducked her head. She could not look away from that dragon-head's hollow eyes boring into her, and every dent made in its horns and curved snout earned a leap from her shoulders. She did not see Jose smirking at her, she did not see Juvia's deep gaze focused on the pet, and she did not see the pet's eyes darting between the door and herself after every hit.

Each blow, however, tremored through her vertebrae like a hammer striking an anvil.

She knew that if the mercenaries triggered a trap—snapped a tripwire, jarred something from the ceiling, or _collapsed the ceiling—_ she'd be the first to bite the dust. Miss McGarden didn't know which part of herself to protect: her head, her neck, her torso? No, there were more important things to protect. Instead, she tucked the tome into her belly and did her best to curl herself around it. If anything would survive a sprung trap, it would be the book.

Her mouth opened in a gasp: a piece of the snout broke and landed on the ground. More pieces started to break, reforming the dragon's head into one ugly concave dent, and each thud in the sand was punctuated with her gasps and Aria's apologies. The snout finally gave way to a small hole, not big enough to even stick her hand through, but wide enough for flat, circular discs to spill and pool in the sand.

Time had made the coins lose their luster, but gold was gold. Whatever shine faded from the coins was reflected in Jose's eyes. He raised his hand, halting the battering, and hummed in pleasant surprise. "Well, well. It seems your devils didn't bother to protect their horde, Miss McGarden." He stooped to gather a handful of the coins and jingled them in his palm.

"We shouldn't touch it," she said quietly. Jose ignored her to signal his men to resume, and Gajeel flared his nostrils. "We shouldn't touch it."

The more the beam rammed the door—the dragon-head destroyed beyond recognition—the wider the hole became, and more coins flowed into the room. With a final _bang!_ the door bar cracked and broke in two. The mercenaries, huffing and gulping down the scorched air, dropped the beam and shared glances with each other. No one wanted to be the one who opened the door.

Gajeel accepted a canteen from Juvia and ignored the way she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Well done, Aria," Jose purred. Blubbering one more apology, Aria took a respectful station beside his master. "Gajeel, my boy, if you would do the honors."

Grunting with his usual scowl in place, Gajeel stepped over the coins, not once sparing the gold even a cursory glance. His button-down was soaked with sweat and clung to his back and chest, making the contours of his muscles visible. Miss McGarden knew firsthand the power wrapped and corded in those muscles, and yet still she found herself inching toward him.

"Please don't," she whispered, daring to raise her head. That tic started in his brow again. He was quick to smooth his expression over. He leaned his weight into his shoulder and his boots slid through the sand to find purchase. The veins in his forehead protruded, his bottom lip was curled in his mouth, and his hands were tightened into fists.

"What'sa matter, Redfox?" Boze snickered. "Can't open a door?"

Gajeel's lips pulled back in a snarl, flashing his sharp canines. He shifted, moving his back this way and that, and the new weight distribution yielded the desired result: bit by bit, the door edged open. The metal screeched and hissed with every inch. There were times when the door stopped completely, Gajeel's grunts and muttered swears the only sound filling the room, and Miss McGarden thought they wouldn't be able to proceed further into the conference rooms.

That hopeful thought was squashed the moment Gajeel repositioned his boot this way, turned his back that way, craned his neck and then _pushed._ After what seemed like an eternity, the door was opened enough for two people to fit through. Gajeel panted and swept the hair from his brow. He dragged himself out of his master's and Sol's way, his boots clomping through the coins with _chinks._ Miss McGarden watched him, her brow furrowed, as he rubbed his shoulder. No doubt he'd have hissed and winced in pain if his master wasn't eyeing him like a hawk.

Instead, the pet's eyes were widened, and the tiny muscles around them were strained.

" _Oui, oui!_ Ze first room!" Sol chirped. The Boscan bent low at the waist and jittered. The other mercenaries were already scooping the piles of coins into sacks and carrying them off to the carts.

Jose stood, surveying the gold and the darkness that lingered beyond the door. "I want these rooms stripped and searched. Anything of value, we take. Totomaru, Juvia," he said. The demolitions expert nodded and waved his torch in front of the door. Juvia weaved her way to the Phantom leader. "And of course Sol. Light this room up—"

Totomaru grinned.

"—with _torches,"_ Jose said, "and find any traps. I want all of this gold cleared out." His Elements slithered through the door, their torches bobbing in the darkness, and Jose smiled.

Progress. Finally, some progress.

* * *

Miss McGarden sat, slumped against the wall, watching the mercenaries scurry back and forth between their carts and the conference room. Vases, candelabras, jewels, necklaces and bracelets and earrings, coins of copper, silver, and gold; anything Jose found was bagged.

Some time had passed—hours, days, she didn't know—and torches now lit the conference room. She had tried to peek through the doors, and what she could see made her jaw hit the ground. The treasures reflected the light from the torches, but the glitter of gold was not what held her captive in such rapture.

The architecture was superb, the details so intricate that all she wanted to do was run her fingers over every groove and crevice. Pillars supported latticework archways shaped like horseshoes sweeping with gentle curves. Tattered silks hung from arch to arch, and a sheep-wool rug eaten away by carpet beetles spanned the length of the room. Worn, coarse bolster cushions were arranged in a large circle on the floor.

She wanted to sit in that circle, to close her eyes and envision the merchants arguing, the buyers and sellers negotiating prices, the guards stationed hither and thither watching every transaction, the servants slipping in to provide food and water, and—

And Yvell. How Black Steel's slave-bride must have felt when she was accused of theft. How terrified she must have been, how _horrifying_ it was to have sharp steel coming down on her wrist.

How relief, coupled with her initial disdain for the King of Ferroc, surged through her veins when he had saved her.

Instead, all Miss McGarden could do was steal these peeps before Boze would spit at her and haul her off. And so she sat, far enough to stay out of the mercenaries' ways, but close enough to watch them hurry along to follow yet another order from Jose. She sighed and stared at her lap.

A smile crept along her mouth as she rubbed her thumb and forefinger together—rather, she rubbed a small disc between her fingers. The coin was grimy and dull, but it was still a piece of hard work. Every coin was made from Ferrian forges and hammers, so different from modern coinage designed from machinery. She held the coin up and squinted at it, tilting her head this way and that. There were ridges along the flat surface, and if she didn't know any better, she'd have sworn she was staring into the face of another dragon.

"Hey, librarian!"

Miss McGarden quickly pocketed the coin and tried to look as miserable as possible. It wasn't too difficult of a feat, what with her status as a captive and a persistent, gut-wrenching throb pounding at her lower back and abdomen. Mavis, what she would give to be curled up at her window seat, a new book cradled in her knees, and a hot cup of tea nestled between her hands.

And an aspirin. By Fairies, she needed an aspirin.

Totomaru glanced about the wagons and jogged over to her after finally catching sight of her greasy Viathan hair. "Jose wants you. I do believe you're going to like what we found."

"Is it Ferrian literature that curses any raider to set foot in Karma?" she asked dryly.

Totomaru smirked and straightened his bowtie. "Watch that, dearie. Wouldn't want anyone to overhear you." He offered his arm, and knowing she had no choice, she accepted. He patted her hand and escorted her through the conference room. She stopped just before the grand carpet and bit her lip. Totomaru quirked a brow. "It's already ruined, you know. The bugs saw to that. What's a little step here and there?"

She frowned at his logic, but didn't argue. She did, however, try to keep her steps as light as possible while praying she didn't step on a bug. "The pattern is a serpent, I think," she whispered to herself. "What's left of it. It's a snake, and the tail is turning into a waterfall. See how symmetrical it is?" She tried to scurry to the other side, but he held her in check.

"How fascinating," he drawled. "Perhaps, my ever-curious librarian, you might want to look up from the rug." She did, and her eyes widened to the size of saucers. He clicked his tongue as she swiveled her head to and fro. "You're like a child in a candy store," he mused.

Red and gold, she decided, were the primary colors that used to cast this room in a deep, saturated light. The ceiling was tall—too tall, for she couldn't even _see_ where the pillars touched the ceiling. Curtains hung between pillars, and she would have marched over to a mercenary for tearing one of the curtains down, had Totomaru not tugged her along.

"It only gets better, librarian," he grinned. "Pick up your feet, now."

Passing the other mercenaries raiding and pillaging goods, Miss McGarden pursed her lips. She and Totomaru reached the end of the room where Jose and a handful of his mercenaries stood. They had their torches raised and had their heads raised toward the ceiling. Totomaru slipped his way between them, Miss McGarden in tow, and gestured in front of them.

Miss McGarden gasped and covered her mouth.

"What am I looking at?" Jose asked. There was an edge to his voice, one that sliced through the shocked air. "Miss McGarden, I believe I asked you a question."

"Anac'Atelim," she breathed out. Their torches could only illuminate only about a quarter of the sculpted dragon head, but there it was, mounted high on the wall. It must have reached all the way up to the ceiling, and its width was mind boggling. How had the Ferrians lifted such a piece? The dragon head was easily wider than twenty of the mercenaries standing side by side. Her mind was awhirl: had they used pullies? mounted it piece by piece? was it a separate construction, or was it part of the wall itself?

From forehead to snout, its head was curved outward, similar to the shape of an egg. Judging from how their paltry torchlight reflected off of its high brow, the metal was smooth scales and only jutted inward for its eye sockets. If she squinted, she could see that the eyes were again constructed from cut rubies. There must have been hundreds of rubies for one eye alone, and she had to wonder the significance of the precious gems in this ancient culture.

And again, those three wisps bordered each eye.

But what really stole her breath was its gaping maw, revealing sharp teeth and an arched tongue, as if flesh would form along the great dragon head for the beast to roar out its claim in Karma.

" _Helek hit'hur mazir ya Anac'Atelim,"_ she murmured to herself.

"What was that?" Boze barked. "You say some voodoo shit again? Huh? You tryin' to curse us or something?" He raised his hand, ready to strike her. Fingers as strong as iron grabbed his wrist. Dumbly, Boze followed the studded forearm to scoff at crimson eyes. "The hell, Redfox? You heard the broad. She's speakin' mumbo jumbo over here."

"Enough," Jose snapped. His pet released Boze after squeezing his wrist to the point where his bones creaked. "What is its significance?"

Miss McGarden gulped and nodded. "It's what the Ferrians believed their god looked like. The Anac'Atelim was believed to be a dragon, and well, there He is. At least His head."

"And?" Jose asked. His fingers tightened around those stolen blue locks of hair. She looked away from that spine-chilling sight, and found herself staring at the pet—rather, his button-down, where a pendant ought to be hidden from beneath the fabric.

"All are under the eyes of the Anac'Atelim," she said, turning back to Jose. "It was a fear tactic, used to scare vendors into unfair deals. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Still, if a king of Ferroc happened to be in the conference room, seated right below Anac'Atelim's head…" She nodded again. "Most merchants gave anything not to evoke the wrath of the Iron Dragon."

"Yet more disillusioned idiots," Totomaru sighed. "I thought Ferrians were supposed to be one of the most advanced civilizations, and here they were, worshipping make-believe lizards."

Gajeel glared at him from the corner of his eye.

Miss McGarden shuffled on her feet and said, "Yet Fiorans believe in a glittering Fairy and a fickle Demon lord."

"Point taken," Totomaru said.

"I want it dismantled," Jose said. His mercenaries shifted on their heels and cleared their throats. "Is that a problem?"

Juvia took a step forward and inclined her head. "Juvia does not believe that is wise, Master."

"That will take a lot of dynamite," Totomaru added. He scratched the back of his neck. "What about you, Redfox?"

Gajeel crossed his arms and shook his head. "If what chatterbox says is true, then this thing's gotta be made out of their best metals. Too high up to ram, either." Miss McGarden shriveled her nose and frowned at him for more than one reason.

Sol jittered and pinched his monocle. "Oh? A little wall decoration 'as your tails between your legs? 'ow can you call yourselves loyal if you do not carry out l _e M_ _aître's_ commands? _Non, non, non!"_

"Got a better idea?" Gajeel grunted.

"… _Non."_

Boze huffed and rocked on his heels. "I don't care what we do with it, so long as we don't have to look at the damned thing anymore. Thing's creepy as hell. I swear its eyes are followin' me."

"Scared?" Gajeel smirked.

Boze whirled around, his foot pressing down on a plate that slid into the floor. All eyes widened from the faint _hiss_ the pressure plate made, and before they could so much as duck, sand and rock shot out of the dragon's mouth in a harsh gust. The mercenaries shouted and raised their arms, some of them falling to their knees to be smaller targets. Jose was quick to hide behind his men.

Miss McGarden closed her eyes and used her body as a shield for her book. Mavis, if the pages ripped…

The spray of sand finally quieted, and she opened her eyes. She blinked and straightened when she realized someone had used their body as a shield for her. Two red eyes blinked back at her. Huffing, she only went as far as inclining her head to acknowledge his action, and then she lowered her gaze toward the floor. He moved toward his comrades, and only after his back was to her did she raise her head.

His shoulder must have still been sore, for he was rubbing it and trying to knead the irritated muscles. There were more pressing matters than a lame shoulder, though: streaks of red lined his back. The jagged edges of rocks must have sliced through his skin like a knife through butter. She squeaked at the sight of the stain gradually spreading through his torn button-down. "Y-you're bleed—"

"It's nothing," he grunted, and promptly ignored her. Jose gestured toward Boze, and then the pet did what he did best.

As for the Phantom leader, he dusted off his coat and shook his khakis clean of sand. "It appears that the devil still has tricks up his sleeve. If anyone even _thinks_ about going near this monstrosity," he said while giving Miss McGarden a mocking glare, "they will—how did you put it before my dear? Ah, yes. They will pay the iron price _._ "

Jose waited for his words to set, and then continued. "It is to remain untouched until I say so. For now, rejoin the others. I want all the loot sorted in the carts, and I want all necklaces brought to me."

"Necklaces?" Miss McGarden blurted out. She glanced at Gajeel's button-down. Juvia, too, swept her all-knowing gaze toward Gajeel.

"Oh, don't worry, my dear," Jose sneered. "I've already got a very pretty necklace for you in mind once this is all over. I hope you're partial to rope." Jose raised a slicked brow at his mercenaries. "Well? I believe I gave you all orders."

Totomaru hauled her along the length of the conference room. Gajeel was several paces in front of them, apparently in a big hurry. Miss McGarden tented her brow, conflicted with whether or not she should ask him about his back or leave the _enemy_ to his own devices. Juvia was already ghosting away, refusing to look at any of them. Sol chittered and jittered, and Boze, abreast of Totomaru, cradled a recently broken nose.

"Here we are," Totomaru said. They had moved past the thick of the mercenaries, and he dumped her against one of the pillars. "Think you'll be out of trouble here. At least, you should be." The warning was clear in his voice, and she had to do everything in her power to keep from rolling her eyes. He snuffed his torch in the sand and then tossed it at her feet.

"I figure you'll be bored," he explained once she puckered her lips in confusion. "At least you can draw in the sand now, right? Maybe make a little castle while you wait for Prince Charming to come slay the dragon? I'd give you a bucket, but—actually, I don't know why I won't give you a bucket. I just won't."

Hooting and cackling, he waved and left her there. _"Fi'nnek jippat,"_ she muttered under her breath. Sighing, she tucked her knees up to her chest and rubbed the small of her back. Where Totomaru had graciously dropped her off, there were only a few mercenaries picking at the loot. They were trying to pry gold from the wall, she could see, and she snorted to herself after hearing one of them say, _The whole wall is made out of gold! Pure gold! Can you believe it? We're going to be rich with just a yard of this!_

"Pure gold's too weak a metal to serve as a wall," she snickered quietly. "It's just plating." Their disappointed whines after chiseling away only a coating of gold served them right.

Not having anything better to do, and her brain still buzzing to allow her any rest, she begrudgingly picked up the torch and started doodling. She sighed and poked this and that, dragged here and there, and sloped upward and downward.

Blinking, she discovered she had drawn those slanted oval eyes bordered by the three wisps. Miss McGarden tilted her head. The wisps could easily be eyelashes, she reasoned; kings of Ferroc lined their eyelids with kohl to give themselves a harsher appearance. She wasn't satisfied nor convinced with that theory, and she bit the inside of her cheek in thought.

"Oh," she mumbled. Out of curiosity, she connected the wisps on either eye with broadening loops. When she completed the last semi-circle, she puckered her mouth and tapped the torch in the sand. What she had just drawn looked like a rainbow—a child's scribble of a rainbow—with the eyes serving as clouds and the loops representing the different colors. This was a possible theory: while Ferrians didn't think anything significant of _weak, silly little rainbows,_ the Viathans certainly did; they believed a rainbow was their goddess, Aquar, smiling upon the world.

Still, the design of the eyes had to have been created before Ferroc conquered Viath. Tossing the rainbow theory away, she rested her chin in her palm and drummed her fingers along her cheek. She frowned and leaned closer to the drawing.

Her mouth slowly opened, and she shook her head. "Wait," she breathed. She rubbed her hand over one of the eyes and then patted the sand down. Taking her torch, she redrew the slanted eye so that it was bigger than its mate.

 _Bigger than its mate._

"That's—" She swallowed and tried to control her breathing. Her full smile threatened to stretch her cheeks this way permanently, and she looked around the room. No one was paying her any mind. Oh, what she would give to show this little discovery to her employer. Surely, Shagotte wouldn't dismiss _this!_

Biting her thumb, Miss McGarden paddled her feet and squeaked in delight. A few heads turned toward her, her rattling chains giving herself away, and she quickly kicked and clawed at her drawing.

There: the mussed sand hid all evidence of her genius.

* * *

After hours of looting, Jose had allowed his mercenaries to rest. Their bedrolls were sprawled out along the cleared section of the conference room, and their snores filled the heavy air.

One torchlight bobbed in the darkness, the palm wrapped around the torch sweating. "Come on," Boze grumbled, dragging along the poor soul behind him. "Redfox thinks I'm scared, huh? I'll show him."

The other mercenary caught in Boze's clutches gulped and tried to reason. "Why exactly am I here, though? Master will be furious if he finds out what we're doing."

"Idiot," Boze said. "You're my witness. Redfox will never believe me, so that's why I need you. And Master ain't gonna know if you keep yer mouth shut. Got it, ugly?" And he was a sore sight, Boze had to admit. The poor man had a horrible underbite, beady eyes, a rectangular forehead, and a stubbed nose.

"But what if Redfox tells Master?" the mercenary asked. "After you tell Redfox, of course."

Boze paused, and the other mercenary skidded on his heels to avoid crashing into his back. "Shaddup," Boze grumbled after a moment. "Redfox ain't gonna say anything, and I'll bloody up his little librarian's face."

"Don't you mean 'or?'" the mercenary tittered.

"I said _shut up._ " Boze punctuated his words with a swift yank on the other man's arm. "You callin' me stupid or somethin'?" He received no answer, and that just made him grumble even more. Finally, they reached the great head of the Anac'Atelim.

"We shouldn't be here," the other mercenary whispered. He wrung his wrists and shifted on his feet. "I got a bad feeling about this."

"Quit bein' a scaredy-cat," Boze said. "It'll be fine. Now come on."

"What are you going to do?"

"Ain't it obvious?" Boze walked to the side of the head and looked up at its massive form. "I'm gonna pluck a ruby out of its eyes and show it to Redfox. That'll make the prick shut up, yeah? Maybe I'll poke one of his eyes out, too."

"This is going to end badly."

"Quit yer cryin' and give me a boost." Boze waved him over. Cautiously, shoulders hunched while he kept his eyes on the roaring Anac'Atelim, the other mercenary scuttled over to him. He was strong enough for him to balance Boze on his shoulders, making a short human-ladder. The height was just enough for Boze to curl his fingers around a lip in the metalwork. Straining his muscles and wiggling his body, Boze managed to hoist his torso onto a ledge.

"Move over to its mouth," Boze said, "and lemme know if there's something else for me to grab onto. I'm getting those eyes no matter what."

The other mercenary's face was twisted as if he had irritated bowels, but he obeyed. He edged toward the mouth, pulling on his fingers when those sharp teeth loomed over him. "I don't like this," he squeaked.

"Huh?" Boze called down. "Ya see somethin' or not?"

With only a torch serving as meager lighting, the mercenary squinted and did his best to peer into the darkness. "There's another ledge, I think. It kind of looks like a collar. Funny, huh? Dragons wearing collars."

Boze rolled his eyes and shimmied to pull his legs onto the ledge. "Where at?"

"Um… move a little to the left—sorry, your right. It's a few paces in front of you. Got it?"

"Yeah," Boze grunted, "I got it." He hugged the ledge and reached up to feel for its edge. "Shit."

"Or maybe it's a bib," the mercenary thought aloud. "Dragons wearing bibs. Maybe Ferrians had very good table manners."

"Would you shut up?" Boze hissed. He bounced on the balls of his feet, swearing when that still wasn't enough for him to reach the ledge. Cursing, he jumped, and by some luck, managed to wrap his hand around something jutting out of the metalwork. As soon as his weight came crashing back down, whatever he had wrapped his hand around bent forward with a _click._

A _lever._

"Shit—" Boze nearly let go of the lever, for his witness was screaming and flailing his arms. Boze looked over his shoulder to see more sand shooting out of the dragon's mouth. Cursing, Boze fell back on his feet and maneuvered back down the ledge. "Hey! It's just sand; shut up or you'll wake everyone up—"

" _It burns, it burns!"_

Pushing himself off the ledge, Boze rolled onto the ground and grabbed the mercenary by the shoulders. "It's just _sand—"_ He gasped and pushed the man away. Welts covered his face, making his eyes swell shut, and his eyebrows were singed off. Spittle lines his enflamed lips, and the veins stood out against his forehead and temples.

" _It burns—"_ A sound so inhuman and shrill pierced the air. Plumes of steam erupted from the sand around them and engulfed the witness. Boze scrambled away, the whites of his eyes drowning out his irises, as he watched the man's flesh sizzle and burn off of his face and hands. _"My eyes—!"_ The mercenary reached out blindly.

Screaming, Boze shook his head and bolted. More steam broke through the sand, forcing him to zig and zag his way to avoid being scorched. The other mercenary's screams echoed throughout the chamber behind him, those horrible sounds pushing Boze to run faster and _not look back._

"Shit! Shit, shit, _shit!"_ Boze's feet caught in the grand carpet, and he fell in a tangle of limbs. The steam was everywhere, bursting through the floor and walls with moans and hisses. Wailing, he pushed himself back up and ran. "Master! _Master! You gotta run!"_

* * *

"Ya gonna keep starin' at me, or are you gonna say somethin'?" Gajeel grunted, not looking up from his work. He and Juvia were in a small alcove in the conference room, away from the other mercenaries. The alcove wouldn't interest any sleepwalkers looking for more treasure, for all valuables were already looted. While Juvia stood, boring her ocean-blue eyes into his skull, he sat with a whetstone sharpening her stilettos.

"Juvia will not do that again for Gajeel."

"Figured as much," he said.

Juvia's voice lowered in anger. "Gajeel made Juvia out to be a fool. Worse, he forfeited any trust Juvia earned from Miss McGarden."

"What makes you think she trusted you?" he asked. A stiletto landed dangerously close to his boot. "The _hell—"_

"That," Juvia began, swooping so that he was locked in her gaze, "is none of Gajeel's concern. What _is_ Gajeel's concern is the fact that Juvia must now make amends with Miss McGarden. Juvia thought Gajeel understood."

He held up his whetstone. "The hell you think I'm doin' this for, then? Dammit, woman, I _get it."_

Juvia straightened her posture and, while some of the venom left her voice, her confession still made chills erupt along his spine. "Juvia is glad that Gajeel understands." She paused, and any trace of anger vanished from her tone in a sigh. "Juvia is also sorry she did not find out what Gajeel wanted her to."

"Nah," he said, returning to sharpening her knife. "Ya found out plenty."

Juvia toed the sand and clasped her hands behind her back. "Juvia hopes that Miss McGarden tells her more stories about the Blue Queen."

Gajeel snorted. "Believe me, that chatterbox can't resist."

A faint smile graced Juvia's lips. "It makes Juvia happy that Miss McGarden knows so much about her history. Juvia… Juvia appreciates it."

"The girl's a walkin', talkin' encyclopedia. Probably recites different alphabets 'fore she sleeps."

The unspoken comment _before I kidnapped her_ hung in the air like a swinging blade.

"Juvia used to count the raindrops at home before she slept," she said when the grinding sound of him sharpening her stiletto became too eerie. "There isn't any _drip, drip, drop_ down here." He grunted and, satisfied that the knife was sharp and lethal, rolled out his duffel to tuck away the whetstone. Juvia inspected her stiletto and hummed. "Gajeel's work is always above satisfactory."

"Got that right," he chuckled, followed by a _gihi._ He slung the strap over his good shoulder. The grimace lining his features after the bag bumped against his back warranted Juvia placing her hand on his arm.

"Gajeel is hurt."

"Took care of it," he said through gritted teeth. "Don't worry 'bout me." The determined set to her brows spoke volumes of how much she wanted to protest, but no such complaints would leave her mouth.

Not when a scream—pained, tortuous, and _terrified—_ erupted through the air like flame set to barrels of fuel.

The two of them shared a look of panic that lasted for a split-second, and then they took off, darting out of their alcove.

" _Master! You gotta run!"_

They skidded to a halt, their boots tearing through the ancient carpet, as they recognized Boze's voice. His figure came charging toward them. The cause of his outburst unknown to them, Gajeel cocked a studded brow while Juvia swept her eyes over the area. Danger made itself known in the form of steam spitting through the sand between them.

"The _hell—"_ Gajeel leapt backward. Had he moved a second later, he'd have been scorched. The steam ate up the carpet and stunk of sulfur—like rotten eggs and charred wood. Juvia had thrown her body to the side and collected herself in one fluid motion. Plumes were sprouting through the sand, further separating the two, and Gajeel was already dashing like Zeref Himself was on his heels when she shouted, "Miss McGarden—!"

Devils may not have been chasing him, but their breath was whooshing through the conference room.

His feet caught on torn parts of the rug, and he'd swear and push himself that much faster. The campsite was stirring with movement, he could see, but it was still _too far away—_

Scalding vapor sprang from just behind him, singeing the ends of his hair. He snarled and roared wordlessly, and then finally, _finally,_ he was pushing his way through befuddled mercenaries rubbing the sleep from their eyes. "Move it, move it, _move it!_ Dammit, everybody out!"

That woke them up. The sand springing up in plumes just yards away prodded them into action: they ran, tripping over bedrolls and mobbing toward the entrance to the main room, shouting for their master and pushing and shoving like bees swarming out of a burning hive—

An elbow rammed into his ribs, and someone jostled his bad shoulder. Grunting and clenching his teeth, Gajeel barreled past the mercenaries, hurtling over some fallen men and knocking others out of his way. Blue hair. He was looking for blue hair, and he couldn't _find—_

 _There_ she was, propped against a pillar, eyes spooked, face drained of all color, and her tiny hands clutching an unlit torch as if it would protect her. Muscles pumping, he sprinted toward her. In seconds, he'd noticed her shackles, knowing that she wouldn't be able to run, and, bracing himself for the pain, he tossed her onto his shoulder.

"No, _no!"_ she shrieked. "The book, the book—" She squirmed and fought for freedom. He couldn't stop the shout thundering from his lungs, and thank steel and iron and everything metal, she stopped her struggles. He refused to let his muscles stop, and his boots pounded through the sand.

"What is—behind you, the left!"

Gajeel didn't hesitate for a moment. He tossed himself to the right, avoiding a plume of vapor devouring the left half of the conference room. More bursts of steam belched in front of them, blocking the way to the main room entrance. The vapors herded him away from the entrance. His swears were colorful enough to make even a sailor blush, and he swept the width of the room to find his way out of the devil's maze.

It took his entire weight to stop himself from running into a wall. He panted and swiveled his head side to side: he'd run into an alcove.

A dead end.

" _Behind us!"_ Hoisting her higher on his shoulder, he turned to find another way. There wasn't an alternate route, not with the steam tapering toward them. His arm loosened around her. She dropped to her feet and was pushed back against the wall, his body the only thing between her and the approaching plumes. Her face was sandwiched between his shoulder blades, and whether it was from him pushing her tighter against the wall or the knowledge that _they wouldn't escape this_ , she didn't know.

She didn't want to find out, either.

Even with the sand spitting closer to them, he hadn't stopped looking for another way out. There was nothing, though, and the words—foreign, crude, and entirely _familiar—_ that spewed from his lips set her heart racing.

" _Fi'nnek lep'pur shad hekk'el shemaz."_

She gawked at the back of his head. He pushed her back further, arms spread out to cover her entirely. To say that it was painful was an understatement; she thought her ribs would snap and that her diaphragm would swim up her throat.

Her tailbone pressed against— _ten feet, now—_ an angular part of the wall that bit into her lower back— _eight feet—_ and further still, it pressed— _six feet—_ until the block of steel slid into the wall— _four—_ and then there was no wall— _three—_ and she was falling backward, mute to his shouts and her screams— _two—_ grabbing onto his duffel straps— _one—_ and backward, backward, _backward—_

 _Zero._

* * *

A/N: Long chapter is long chapter, but oh so necessary~~

As always, huge huge HUGE thank you to everyone reading this story. All favorites, follows, reviews, even just a click to the latest chapter, all of is appreciated and incredible. THANK YOU ALL :D You're lovely~

I hope this chapter cleared up some confusion, and I hope it's left you with more questions ;) That means I'm doing a good job telling an intriguing story (at least that's how I'd like to think of it!)

 **And to let everyone know: My senior year of university begins this coming Monday. I am going to be EXTREMELY busy with school, finding a job, AND also studying for the CFA exams in December. If I don't update, it isn't because I abandoned the story; I'm just getting beaten up by life. Eh D; Sorry in advance!**

Aaaand now to respond to reviews from Chapter 4:

 **JadeOccelot, Mewhee89, deblovesdragons, and Andrea: I responded to your reviews at the end of chapter 4; please look there if you haven't already :)**

 **L.A. Artemis: Oh, thank you! I'm so glad that they're believable. I hope this installment lives up to your expectations :)**

 **Guest: My heart! hurts! too! I'm with you there; Gajeel is killing me, too! Hope you enjoyed the latest chapter :)**

 **xblood kittenx: AHHHH A PRECIOUS CINNAMON BUN. I LOVE IT!**

 **Stellar2011: Ahh, well, can't promise if I'll update in the wee hours again! Glad you're enjoying the story so far :)**

 **Kanpai: Hah! I guess the fanfiction gods DO have a way, eh? ;D**


	6. Ductile

He'd been inches from the sand. _Inches._ He felt the disturbed air against his face, felt the sand beneath his boots shift to make way for another plume, and then this accursed darkness swallowed him whole.

Gajeel's stomach was in his throat, and his breath was anywhere but in his lungs. He thought he knew darkness before, but this was something else entirely: no light, no semblance of position, nothing but pressure on his back pulling him _down._

Instinct demanded that he'd fight it, that he'd kick and slam his fists against whatever tried to pull him under. It was as if gravity had chosen to victimize him, and so his attempts were futile.

Bile pooled in the back of his mouth. He was tipping over, over, and over, sweeping through a morbid tango filled with sharp edges and abrasive floors. Dancing was never one of his fortes, and even in this iron-forsaken freefall, his feet still did not know what to do. He jarred against and crashed again and again into something— _someone—_ else. His ribs bruised, scrapes tore through his khakis to his knees, and every roll seared across the bandages lining his back.

Steel, iron, and all-things metallic, he felt ill to his misplaced stomach, and his shouts were those borne from the tumbling, the war to rein precious air back into his body, and this _Anac'Atelim damned feeling of vertigo._

There were other shouts, someone else's cries, Gajeel realized through the fog curling in his brain: feminine in sound and just as startled as his. White dots exploded across his eyes, and a moment later, the wet pain slashed across his brow. His yelp twisted with hers, and with one final thud to his back, this black world continued to spin.

Yet he came to his tango close, panting and blinking through the sticky clots over his eyelids. His ears rang, the soprano chime growing louder in pitch, making him deaf to the shriek coming from…

…beneath him. No, that could not be right. He was still rolling and pitching backward, was he not? Surely, he did not attempt a promenade; he'd have stepped on his partner's toes, tripped over them, squashed them—

Miss McGarden groaned and tried to move her legs, only to find that something heavy was weighing them down. Though the breath had been knocked out of her lungs and she was bruised and battered, her body was shaking with excitement so much that her teeth chattered and shackles rattled. Her eyes darted about, and, as if she wasn't a black-and-blue, roughhoused, and disheveled human pancake, she _smiled._

Grinned, from ear to ear, and wheezed out a cackle. The enveloping darkness may have robbed them of sight, but it did not rob them of their hearing. She was _alive._

Her loony giggles and his harsh gasps filled in the black lines around them. From the back of the giddy mush she thought of as her brain, she knew that she must have softened his fall. She was _alive!_ Her crying spine was testimony to that. She giggled, and the mouthful of sand coating her tongue prompted her to dip her head and cackle. _She was alive!_ Her shackles jingled in her attempt to crawl her way out from him. That yielded zero results, what with his weight and her measly strength, and so she opted to just lay there and pat her hands in the sand.

And giggle some more.

Something sharp and pointed— _an elbow—_ rammed into her spine. That quieted her madness. She yelped and tried to turn her body over, but that wasn't about to happen. Scrunching her face in concentration, she tugged one leg out from beneath him, and then shimmied this way and that to free the other.

Shuffling and crawling so that she was kneeling, she squinted and tried to make him out in the darkness. He had to have been at most a foot in front of her, given his gulps of air and labored breathing.

And then, like a load of bricks falling onto her, the situation dawned.

She was alone in the dark, again, with Jose's pet. Subconsciously, her hand rose to her mouth to nibble on her thumb nail. He couldn't see her, and the same went the other way. If she was extra quiet, she could sneak away, maybe find her way out of this ruin. The thought lit a spark of hope in her chest, the only light to be found in this darkness, and then she recalled: light.

There was no _light,_ and she could not see her hand in front of her face. If she had a torchlight—

Another grin split over her face. She had a torch; it was right in her hand, before she'd fallen through the wall—

 _Oh._

Oh, _Mavis_. Shame swam its way from her toes straight to her throat. She bit too much off her nail, hard enough to taste blood.

He had come looking for her in the chaos. The plumes, whatever they were—they should have killed her. Mavis knows that she was the last thing on the mercenaries' minds as they were scurrying out of the conference room. She would have been a sizzling corpse, had it not been for the wheezing man before her. Her torch, which she suspected she had dropped on their tumble down into this unknown darkness, was not what kept her from slinking off to find sunlight.

It was her thrice-damned conscience. He was another human being, bones, flesh, and all, and to leave him would…

Even if she hadn't lost her grip on the torch…

He groaned again, and that quiet sound settled her resolve.

By Fairies and Spriggans, she wished she was as vile as Jose in situations like these.

Steeling herself with her foolish conscience, she gulped and reached out to him. She did not need light to know that her fingers were shaking. He must have been closer than she thought, for her arm was not extended all the way before her fingertips met fabric. Miss McGarden jumped at that tiny bit of contact. Pursing her lips, she followed the fabric— _a sleeve?—_ up to what she suspected was his shoulder, and then patted him.

"Excuse me," she said. Her cheeks flushed at how ridiculous she sounded, as if she was a little child tugging his sleeve to have his attention. After receiving a grunt as a response, she patted him again, this time a might harder. "Excuse—" The air left her in a whoosh when something latched onto her wrist. Her body moved on its own; she ripped her arm away, but whatever grabbed her wrist jolted her back. She lost her balance, and her torso pitched forward to land on something hard and unyielding.

Her hand was still held prisoner against his shoulder, the position quite uncomfortable and making her elbow lock. More groans and grunts, and she slowly sat herself up with her free hand. The buttons on his shirt bit into her palm, and she pushed down for the proper leverage. She was rewarded with a yelp and a swear from him.

" _Fi'nn,"_ he hissed between his teeth. The slur sounded wet and weighed down by his tongue, and it was then that she began to comprehend the amount of pain he was in. She scrambled off of him, hunching her shoulders when he swore again.

" _Le'shem,"_ she murmured, and knelt a safe ways beside him. He took in another breath, and she felt the drum of fingers against her hand. _Oh._ His fingers crushed hers in his iron-hard grip. She bit her lip to keep quiet, and before she needed to ask, he gave.

"Spinnin'," he forced through his lips. "Keeps spinnin'."

She looked around them, not that there was anything she could see, and slowly nodded. She squeezed his fingers back, almost wishing the action undone when he squeezed even harder. "It's stopped," she said, for lack of a better response. His breathing stuttered. "See?"

He snorted at that, and her spirits rose as his fingers slid free of hers, one by one. A breath she didn't know she'd been holding slipped through her nose. "Can't," he said, his voice a quiet rumble, "see a damned thing, chatterbox."

"At least you can hear," she said. He breathed in to respond, and whatever he was about to say died in his throat. They both heard it: the whispers of sand shifting, followed by a rattling sound. She heard the creak of leather; his hand had shot to his holster. He sat up, the motion jarring her, and raised his revolver.

"Shit," he growled. They seemed to share the same thought: what good was a gun if he couldn't see? "If that's another one of yer kingsnakes—"

"No," she said, and for a moment, she pictured his shoulders relaxing, until she continued with, "that would be a rattlesnake. Kingsnakes eat them."

The words spewing from his mouth were just as colorful as her cheeks, she knew. The two of them waited there in the darkness. Her fingers had curled around his sleeve, and he'd shifted to lean his weight on his knees. The rattles died off, and they didn't know if that meant the snake was slithering toward them or that it had lost interest. Several more moments of silence passed. She sighed in relief. The sound quickly turned into a gasp. He groaned and fell onto his side. His hair fanned onto her lap, and carefully, she followed the strands to his head. Her knees caught on a few pieces, and he'd growl and wince from her accidentally tugging on his hair.

Her palm was hot and sweaty against the side of his face. Gajeel gnashed his teeth at the unpleasant feeling, and even more so after her fingertips brushed against his temple.

"You're bleeding," she whispered. She traced the slice along his brow, her fingertips staining with his sticky blood. The white pain that pounded at his skull was enough to make him blink back stars and swat at her hand. He heard her shuffle about and swish through the sand. His arm felt like it was forged steel, but he forced the limb to move. His hand patted about, and his fingers only sifted sand. Frowning for just a moment, the expression smoothed over into a solemn one, a face that knew, if he were in her position, he'd snatch this opportunity as well.

So he sat, schooling his breaths into even rhythms, and blinked at the darkness scratching his eyes. His sigh was loud in his ears, just enough to muffle the niggling—steel _everything,_ he was _not_ afraid.

He was in the dark, by his lonesome, bleeding with a rattlesnake slithering somewhere nearby, but Gajeel Redfox was not afraid. He'd faced worse; he'd survive this.

Somehow.

"You had your duffel before we—well, whatever it is happened, right?"

Her voice startled him into uttering a surprised grunt. She was somewhere to his left, and if he strained his ears, he could hear her chains clinking. So that was what she was doing: finding his duffel, and then tailing it out of here, even in complete darkness. "Yeah," he said, after she repeated her question, and he cursed himself for answering. More still, he cursed himself for adding, "'s not with me anymore."

"Do you have a matchbox in it?" she asked. Her voice was farther away, this time.

"Yeah." He swallowed, not at all liking how dry his throat was, or how his chest tightened. He was to remain in the shadows, then. "Gonna need a torch." A vague memory skittered in his mind's eye, one with her holding a torch like it was her last lifeline while the conference rooms exploded with whatever was stewing in the accursed sand.

And knowing her stubborn streak, the little chit, she'd find that torch. One way or another.

"Looking for that—" Her gasp had the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he jerked his head off of the floor to look in her direction, or where he thought she was. "Thought it was the snake," she said around a shaky laugh. "It's just the torch."

His head fell back with a thud. Gajeel winced, but other than that, kept quiet. He listened to her move about the room. She was moving in a circle, he realized, as now she was somewhere to his right. He angled his head that way with a hiss, and heard her pause.

"Are you still there?" came her meek voice.

The words were slow to travel from his brain to his mouth. "Else would I be?"

"I mean," she huffed, and he could picture her mouth twisted in one of her pouts. "I mean, are you alright?" Gajeel sucked in a breath. He was caught off guard, whether from the question or the soft tone of her voice, he didn't know. Maybe it was a combination of both. He didn't answer her; he was too focused on the sounds of her searching for his duffel.

His brows pinched together. He quickly regretted frowning; his forehead felt like it was about to split open. Expression or no, he was still miffed. She was digging through the sand in darkness, knowing full well that there was a rattlesnake—or more of the little devils, he'd wager—and fully aware of the possibility of triggering another trap. He could hear it in her voice as she murmured to herself: _fear._

For him, though, he heard the exact opposite in the way his breathing changed. She was taking risks looking for his blasted duffel with no intention of leaving him in the shadows, and he…

"I mean," she said with a nervous chuckle, "the chances of finding mister rattlesnake are slim, right? What are the odds that I'd step on him, or grab him, or anything? Pretty slim, I think, yeah?" She was now in front of him, maybe fifteen feet away, maybe twenty. "Not like I can hurt him. He probably took one look at me and knew I'd be no harm, right? Or maybe that made him want to eat me, since I'm no threat. Do… do rattlesnakes eat people?"

"Only tiny ones," he said, his voice sluggish. Her huffing warranted the corner of his mouth to quirk. That small movement made his brain roar in his skull, and he wouldn't be surprised if it started oozing out of his ears. By nuts and bolts, even the muscles in his cheeks were screaming.

"I think— _aha!"_ Miss McGarden patted her hands against her thighs in excitement, and she looped her arm through one of the duffel straps she stumbled across. " _Found it."_ Grinning, she gave it a pull. It didn't budge. Another tug, and it only yielded an inch. Scrunching her face up, she wrapped her other arm around the strap and began dragging it back. "What," she said after falling on her bum, "do you have in this thing?"

"See fer yourself."

Scoffing, she paddled backward through the sand, foot by foot. "Could you… keep talking? I can't see—I don't know where you are." She bit her lip, and then squeaked out, "Mago."

He peered at where he thought she was. "Notsy," he said after a moment. He heard the smile in her voice as she called out again. "Notsy," he sighed. Their game of Mago Notsy ended with her an arm's length away.

Miss McGarden fumbled with the buckles and straps on his pack. "Where's the matchbox?" she asked.

"One of the pockets." A speck of purple danced across his vision, and his eyes crossed to focus on that tiny point. His head lolled to the side. "Front pocket," he mumbled.

She finally managed to unroll the duffel. Her brows lifted at the sound of metal clinking against each other, and as if the rattlesnake was hiding in his pack, she was hesitant to go rifling through his belongings. Mavis knew what he had in there, but—

"Hey," Miss McGarden said, and her fingers grasped the collar of his button-down. She shook him, and her pulse skipped a beat from his answering groan. "Don't… don't fall asleep, okay?" Hesitance be damned, he didn't answer her, and so she dove into the pockets and straps, feeling a row of identical ridges and bumps. Something sharp pricked her finger, and she guessed she'd found where he kept his knives.

"There you are," she murmured. Fumbling with the striker, she pursed her lips and flicked the match against the rough side of the box again. Nothing, not even a spark.

The sounds of the match scratching against the box peeled one of his eyes open. Not that he could actually see her fruitless efforts. "Know how to use that?"

She glanced in his direction and blew a strand of hair out of her face. "I know how to use matches, thank you very much."

He had a smart remark floating about in his brain, and if it didn't feel as if his skull would pop out of his _eyeballs,_ for Karma's sake, he'd have bridged the connection between brain and tongue. Instead, he slurred out, "Gotta use the striking surface."

"I _am_ using the striking surface," she grumbled.

"Red end of the match."

"As if I can see which end is red," she huffed.

Her voice was muffled to his ears, as if she was speaking underwater. That wasn't right, was it? "Curved end," he grunted. Sparks spat out, and he watched while a particularly fast strike set the match blazing. Scrambling, as if she didn't expect it to work, she dropped the match on the wick wrapped around the torch, and—

" _Oi!"_ He edged away from her, the flames much too close to his hair for comfort, and snarled, " _Fi'nnek achig."_

"Well, _excuse me—"_ The air lodged in her throat. Now that she could see, the light momentarily blinding her, the blood caking the side of his face was like an angry red beacon. There was a nasty gash running from his temple to brow, and it was only by luck that he hadn't had his piercings ripped out. The holes in his khakis and sleeves were bloody along the edges from the scrapes on his arms and legs. Her eyes swept back to his brow. He should have been unconscious from the looks of it.

"Are you al—" She bit her tongue. His eyes fluttered beneath their lids, and she scooted closer to him. "Excuse me," she tried again.

And then her eyes rounded out to the size of saucers. Her previous excitement returned tenfold, and her teeth chattered. " _What,"_ she breathed out, " _did you just say?"_ He turned his head away from her. That wouldn't do, oh no no no, Mavis, _no,_ that would not do at all. She grasped his chin and angled his head toward her. "What did you just say? You—you just spoke—before, too—"

Gajeel's body went limp, and she patted his cheeks. "Oh, _no,"_ she bit out, "you do not get to take a nap at a time like this, mister." She scrunched his mouth, but still he did not respond. Glancing about, she finally settled on saying in a gasp, "There's a rattlesnake."

His revolver was cocked and his finger hovered over the trigger in a heartbeat. He propped himself on an elbow, and when there was no rattlesnake in sight, he felt a red glow creep up his neck.

"Oops," she said. "Must have been a trick of the light." Not minding the gun still in his hand, she crawled in front of him and put her hands on her hips. "Now, then, I believe I asked you a question."

" _Tch._ Lose the tone, lady." He holstered his revolver and settled back in the sand. "Don't gotta answer a goddamn thing you ask."

"Oh," she drawled. "Oh, I see. That's not going to work. I can leave you here, you know." His eyes slashed toward her. They would sometimes cross and then refocus on her: the scabs around her mouth, the dirt and sweat marred onto her forehead and cheeks, dabs of red dotting her torn clothes. His gaze sent a shiver up her spine. "I-I can take your pack—and the torch!—and find my way out of here. I-I can leave you," she warned.

He'd have arched a pierced brow if his face didn't feel like it was trampled by a horse. "Can ya?" Oh, the doubt was thick in his voice, and it was even more apparent in her shifting eyes. He called her bluff, and he hit the nail on the head.

Now it was just a matter of waiting her out. This, he could do. Not like he had anywhere more important to be at the moment.

"Yes," she said, folding her arms over her chest. "I'll do it." He blinked at her. "I'll—I'll leave you here. I'll—" And there it was: her shoulders slumped, and her hands fell to the sand. "No," she murmured, "I can't."

He smirked at that.

"But," she growled— _growled!—_ and then she had her hands planted on either side of him, her face inches from his. Her nose was scrunched up, her brows were set in a determined V, and her hazel eyes were as scorching as Karma's sands. "But _you_ are going to tell me how you know Ferrian. _Rijapaz?"_

Gajeel jutted his lip and looked away from her. "Nah." Her hand shot out and scrunched his mouth, forcing him to look at her. His disbelief was met with her resolution. Sweat started forming along his hairline, making the cut on his brow sting even more.

"Yes you _are,"_ she said. "Or so help me, I'll—I'll—" His shoulders started to quake, and she pouted. "Well I don't know what I'll do, but I'll do something! I-I'm warning you!"

"Shakin' in my britches," he smirked. "Gih—" He hissed and screwed his eyes shut. _"Fi'nn."_

She was tempted to badger him more. He was dangling bait right in front of her, but no matter how hard she tried to grasp it, he'd just dodge and continue taunting her, the _jippat._ There were other things of more importance, she rationalized as an attempt to soothe her nerves. The gash on his brow was not going to take care of itself.

Gajeel heard her going through his pack, but he didn't dare open his eyes again. The sockets might melt through his pupils, if he did. He heard her flip open the lid on something— _his flask?—_ sniff, and then—

He shouted and jerked his head away from her. A small hand turned his head back. Her strength was surprising, and her soft murmurs were—

He quieted and channeled the pain through his deep breaths. "Coulda warned me," he bit out.

She dabbed a length of gauze against his temple. _"Le'shem,"_ she whispered. She winced with him. The wound was deep enough for him to need stitches. She didn't find a needle and catgut in his duffel, and she doubted the man had any to begin with; with hands as big as his, he wouldn't be able to loop the gut around the needle.

After she was satisfied she'd cleaned the slash, she began wrapping it. "We fell down stairs," she said. "See?"

The torch only offered so much light, but right where the light met the shadows, he could see the edges of a staircase. His eyes widened; they'd fallen a long way, too.

"Excuse me, mister—"

"Redfox," he grunted. "Redfox."

"Mister Redfox," she continued, ignoring his curled lip, "why did you come back for me?" Her words were soft, and her gaze even softer, and damn him and all of his logic, he didn't know why her eyes pierced him so.

"Jose woulda been pissed if I didn't," he said. He swallowed. She did not look convinced, or maybe that was disappointment flashing through those soft eyes.

"Where do you think we are?" The change of subject was a blessing, and he looked around them to the best of his ability.

"Thought you might've known," he said. It was too much of a struggle to keep his eyes open, yet closing them was too tempting for him to succumb to sleep. "Ain't you the encyclopedia here?"

"Oh, I don't know." He knew he'd just walked himself into a trap. "I just wondered if you might have known. You seem to know more than you let on." That excited energy lingered about her shoulders. She wanted to press him, oh Mavis she did. She squirmed while waiting for one of his blunt remarks, for his lack of manners to tell her to _shut her mouth,_ but there was none of that. "Silence speaks volumes, Mister Redfox. Mister Redfox?" She glanced down at him. His face was pasty, even in the firelight, and sweat shined off of his nose and upper lip.

She shook his arm and pursed her lips. "Ignoring someone is very rude, you know. Don't you have any manners in that thick skull of yours?" If possible, his cheeks drained of even more color. "Mister Redfox?" Her voice rose an octave, and she edged closer to him. "Please, Mister Redfox, you can't fall asleep! Not with that injury."

The situation weighed heavily on her shoulders, enough for them to slump. Miss McGarden clutched his button-down in her hands. They were in an unknown section of Karma with a small circumference of light holding their sanities intact. The torch wouldn't burn forever, though, and she knew this.

She could leave. She could take the torch, whatever she needed from his pack, and leave to find her way out of this hellhole. Karma was meant to be discovered properly, not by a pack of greedy raiders. It'd serve him right if she left; Mavis knows _he'd_ leave her in the dark.

But looking at a man who may or may not wake up had every marrow-deep moral rush to the surface of her very existence. And a man who knew how to speak Ferrian, to boot.

She would not abandon him. She wouldn't stay there, either.

* * *

"Heavy," Miss McGarden grunted. She pursed her lips and trudged another foot in the sand. "Very heavy." Behind her was Mister Redfox being dragged along; she'd sliced off the straps of his duffel after rummaging through his pack to find a sharp knife, tied either end of the straps around their waists, and as for the duffel itself, well.

She had made a mess of a knot around his waist, using his belt buckle and the buckles of his duffel. She'd tucked here, looped there, done something here, and _voila:_ his duffel was attached to his hip.

Miss McGarden wasn't sure if she could detach it.

His head bumped along her calves after every agonizing step. She panted and plowed forward, waving her torch this way and that to have some sense of where they were. The passage she followed was narrow, the ceiling pitching downward. She was small enough not to hunch or duck her head. If Mister Redfox were conscious and not being dragged behind her like a winter solstice tree, he'd have to hunch his entire body just to fit through here.

Pausing to wipe the sweat from her brow, she looked over her shoulder. Mister Redfox was still pale, and the gauze around his forehead was spotted with red. Being dragged was probably most uncomfortable, she wagered. It wasn't as if she had any other options; she had tried to support his weight with her shoulder, resulting in him squashing her yet again. By the way she was pulling him along, his pockets and boots had to be full of sand.

She looked at her own feet. At least he had shoes. This sand scorched her toes.

Gathering her breath, Miss McGarden continued her march. She put one foot in front of the other, expecting the struggle and the strain against her waist—Mavis, if her ribs were creaking, she could only imagine how his were faring. One particular step was her undoing: the sand beneath her foot gave way, making her fall forward. She was the only one privy to her scream. Her heels slammed into the sand, trying to find any purchase.

That may have worked, had she not been lugging Mister Redfox behind her. His weight knocked into her, upsetting her balance, and she landed on her bum. Torch in one hand and her other arm pulling his head into her lap so he wouldn't bang into the suffocating walls, she slid down this slope with him. The sweltering air slapped against her face; her eyes watered and her nostrils burned.

It was a short slide before she met even ground. She landed in a heap, the straps connecting her and Mister Redfox twisting and tangling. For a few minutes, her gasps were the only things she could concentrate on. Closing her eyes, she rolled to support herself on her elbows and knees. He was even paler, she noticed, and with a worried brow, she reached for her torch.

Once the ringing in her ears died down to a mere whisper, she sighed and heaved herself to her feet. Frowning, she tilted her head to the side and stared at the walls around her. There was a sound beyond the walls, she heard, like a breeze whooshing past them. Certainly, Karma had more than one exit, so perhaps she was close to freedom. Closing her eyes, she twisted her lips and tilted her head to the other side.

No, that was not the wind. That was water.

She blinked in confusion, yet began walking into the unknown. After Black Steel conquered Viath, a small kingdom known for its aqueducts and waterworks, bathhouses became commonplace in his territory. Ferroc, what was once known as a ruthless territory due to its warriors' prowess in battle, began focusing on human necessities and economic luxuries after Black Steel vowed himself to his Viathan slave-girl, Yvell.

Miss McGarden bit her lip in thought. The aqueducts supplied the bathhouses with water, so perhaps that was what she was hearing. Maybe, per chance, some of the aqueducts were still standing—but to have them travel underground? She marveled at the combined craft of Ferrian and Viathan architects.

The further she traveled, the louder the sound became. Some sort of water was rushing in this chamber. Mister Redfox's head nudged against her legs as she came to a stop. There had to be some sort of brazier here, if this was indeed the bathhouses; with them being underground, the Ferrians needed light to see.

Her eyes lit up at the shelving along the walls, similar to the ones in the main chamber of the conference room. Tugging along Mister Redfox, she set her torch against the powdered coal. Lines of fire stretched from wall to wall, revealing a massive circular chamber set in levels. No longer needing her torch, she suffocated the wick-end in the sand. She was on the highest most level, she could see, and stairwells led to the bottom levels. It was stupendous—how had they managed to construct this? Pillars with lattice arches lined each level, and friezes spanned the curved walls of the bathhouse and up to the domed ceiling.

Even for a place to soak and wash away the day's sweat and dirt, some of the friezes depicted the Ferrians victorious in battle. She snorted at the sight.

From where she stood, tiled trenches partially hidden by debris and sand zig-zagged down to the lower level. And there, built into the lower level, were the baths. Some were destroyed by fallen pillars. No, that couldn't be! For the Ferrians to have filled their baths using these trenches—oh, what a grand place this must have been! If she closed her eyes, she could imagine it all: the red drapes, the gentle trickle of water, the smell of herbs and soaps, the sounds of bare feet slapping against the tiles.

Why, oh why, hadn't she been born in this era?

Her sigh was wanting. At least now she knew where the sound of water was coming from; the baths that weren't destroyed were flooded. There was a gap crushed into the bottom level, most likely caused by pillars collapsing, and water gushed through broken sections on either side of the chamber, creating a small river of sorts. It didn't look deep enough to sweep her away, at least it didn't look that way from her vantage point, and she was itching to jump in for a quick dip.

Mavis, she wanted a bath. She was positive that her clothes could crawl themselves to the bath—even her greasy _hair_ could start walking toward the water—and her thighs were sticky with her menstruation. Miss McGarden bounced on the balls of her feet at the lovely idea of a soak.

Mister Redfox's hair tickled her ankles, and she scolded herself. Now wasn't the time to be wistful. With new determination, she took a step forward, and then stopped.

Stairs. Many stairs. She huffed at Mister Redfox.

* * *

Thud. Thump. Thud. _Thump-thud-thump._

Mister Redfox's feet knocked against every step on the way to the bottom level, and it was a miracle they hadn't cartwheeled the last few staircases; Miss McGarden had tripped, she'd lost her balance, she took too far of a step, and sand shifted and fell beneath her weight. His bottom must have been hurting something raw and awful, but it couldn't be helped. His lip curled in his unconscious state, and she squeaked out a hurried "sorry."

At least she felt a little less guilty knowing that he'd be much more uncomfortable if it was his other side clunking against the steps.

Finally, she took her last step toward the bottom level. _Finally!_ Catching her breath, she slumped her shoulders. Then he came slumping down the last step, and his head bumping against the backs of her legs was enough for her to land face-first into the ground. She was glad no one heard her shriek. Spitting out sand, she whirled around to face him. The frown creased into her brow smoothed over, as her eyebrows lifted into her hairline, at how clammy he looked. Gulping, she climbed to her feet and tugged him toward the running water.

He groaned and shifted, and she bit her nail in thought. Him waking up was a good sign for his health, though his body did need rest after that head injury. She was no doctor, but she had read once that sometimes, people experience temporary bouts of amnesia after a good clonk to their noggin. The possibility of him waking to not recognize her—or _worse,_ if he did recognize her and decided to handle her the same way Boze did after she was too much of a hassle…

Whipping her head about, she locked her gaze on a crumbled pillar near the makeshift stream. She marched over to it and took a moment to steel her nerves. Her shackles were rattling. Her fingers fumbled with the knot around her waist, and she cursed herself for having bitten her nails to the quick. Then she had to untie the duffel strap around his waist.

Grabbing him by his underarms, she lugged him over to the pillar so that he was propped against it, her grunts and mutterings punctuating her tugs. There. She was almost done.

With the duffel straps in her hands, she hesitated. She knew what it was like to wear chains, and she was loathed to bind another person similarly. Her spirits fell with her shoulders, and she stared at the straps as if they'd whisper her solution.

Her mind was decided after a groan floated in the air. He was stirring, opening and closing his mouth like his body was becoming aware of the pain it was in, and she pushed herself into action. She wouldn't take any chances, by Mavis she wouldn't. Karma was full of enough threats, as it was. Tying one end of the duffel straps around his wrist, she looped it around the pillar, and then tied his other wrist. Her gut twisted at the sight of him: pale, sweating, leaning against that pillar, his hands prone at his sides and the straps like a serpent slithering through the sand.

He did not look like a pet, in that moment. Not with how much color he'd lost in his face. He looked like… like…

Sighing, she knelt before him and cradled his head against the pillar so that he wouldn't be slumped into his collarbone. Her eyes were drawn to the gauze around his forehead. Dots of red started to bloom against the dusty muslin, and if she didn't clean his wound again, infection would set in. Straightening her spine, she scurried off to the water and dunked her bandana.

Making sure that she wrung out most of the dirt in her bandana—she forgot that it was originally orange in color—Miss McGarden hurried back to him and squeezed the water onto the gauze. She knew enough about first aid to know that unwrapping dry gauze on clotted blood, even partly clotted blood, was something a ninny would do.

And Miss McGarden was no ninny. She was a researcher to boot.

Or, in her case, lack of boots.

Back and forth, she ran to the water and back to him, and when the gauze was finally soaked through, she started to unwrap it. The last length of muslin fell away, revealing the bloody kiss on his brow. His piercings were crusted, and blood trickled down his temple. Pulling out his flask from his pack, she flipped the lid open and tipped it onto his brow.

His eyes flashed open, and she jerked her body backward. "Told you to _warn me,"_ he snapped. His sharp canines were bared, and his fisted hands strained against the straps. She knew how strong those arms were, could see the corded muscle and veins pressing against his skin. A lump formed in her throat, threatening to suffocate her, and she tried to control her breathing.

His head lolled onto his shoulder, his hands fell to the sand, and his breaths were just as shallow as hers. His eyes were hazy, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't blink. He finally did, though it was a weak flutter of his lids. It took far too long for him to lift his head to peer at her. "Gonna have to clean it 'gain, huh," he murmured.

Her nod was mechanical, and his answering sigh was like steam pouring out from bellows. He grunted. "Waitin' for an invitation?" came his slur, and he tilted his head back. With his eyes closed, he murmured, "'Cause here it is, shortstack."

She watched him for several moments, wary of any sudden moves on his part. His Adam's apple bobbed with every breath, and his lip lifted in a wince. Gathering whatever courage she had left, she shimmied over to him on her knees and brushed a lock of hair off of his forehead.

"Ready?" Miss McGarden whispered. She took his grunt as a "yes," and tipped the flask again. He hissed and shoved his head back against the pillar. That colorful language he was so fond of spilled from his lips. When it was over, he exhaled from his mouth and inhaled from his nostrils.

"Shit," he said. "Wasted my good whisky."

Her nose crinkled at that. She reminded herself that she was speaking to a man who still was not out of the woods just yet. "You need stitches, Mister Redfox. It's too deep to just wrap; it'll just keep bleeding."

"No."

"No?"

He shook his head, and a split second later his eyes rolled. Subconsciously, she inched closer to him. "No," he repeated after gulping down more air. Sweat trickled down his neck, making his shemagh stick to his skin. "Ain't lettin' you near me with a needle. Might poke my eye out."

"I—" She huffed and slammed her hands into the sand. "I would not poke your eye out!"

"Ever stitched someone up 'fore?"

"N-no," she said. "But I've read a few books—"

He snorted and closed his eyes. "Might do worse, then." One eye, his good eye, cracked open to study her. The weight of that gaze was telling.

There was quiet between them, a chilling sound accompanying the running water, that forced her turn. He'd lay his cards on the table, even if he'd done so in a ridiculous, annoying, so typically _masculine and idiotic,_ sort of way. Now, it was her turn.

"I didn't leave you," she said quietly.

He blinked and glanced about, like he was finally realizing they were not in the same room as before. Their surroundings were foreign to him, and he quickly traced the lines of fire from the braziers. He turned his head to the side, as far as the pillar would let him. "That water I hear?"

"Yes," she said. "Welcome to the bathhouses. Bring your own towel."

He snorted again, and she guessed that if his forehead wasn't sliced open, he'd have cocked a pierced brow at her. She held his gaze. It was true: she hadn't left him, and though his toes felt like they were submerged in sand, his jockeys wedged into his bum for whatever reason, and his skull still roared, he was still alive.

She could have done him ill while he was unconscious, and yet she hadn't. "That your style, then?" he asked. Her head tilted to the side. "Wait 'til they wake up, then have your fun?"

"My style—my _style—"_

He swallowed and looked at his duffel. "Front flap, one of the pockets. There's some needles and gut in there. Should be."

While she was rummaging through the duffel still buckled to his hips, he tested his arms and muttered at the bindings around his wrists. "Why?" he mumbled.

She hid her blush in her task and squeaked out, "A precaution."

So _that_ was her style. Precaution. Miss _Tie Up a Man Because of Precaution._ He tugged on the straps and cursed. He knew some sailors from shadier parts of the world who'd have been impressed with these knots. "The hell you learn to tie like this?" His voice was groggy to his ears, and he could only imagine what she thought of him. No, that was not a good idea; thinking hurt too much at the moment.

As for her hasty answer, he only heard something about a brother and the army.

Miss McGarden beamed at the needle and gut. The medical books she read detailing sutures highlighted the importance of sanitation, and so she dripped some more whisky on the needle and length of gut. "Mister Redfox," she began once she scooched back in front of him, "I want to tell you fairly that I have never done this before. Regarding your past… brutality toward me, I want you to be aware that I will not keep those memories in mind for this. I am obligated to let you know that I apologi—"

"Oi," he muttered. "Told you to lose the tone. Ya ain't a doctor, and I'm still a patient. I get it." He stared at his duffel, still a bit confused why it was attached to his belt. Had it always been like that, or was this another new development, like his raw-as- _hell_ backside? "Just get it over with." His nails bit into his palm at the first stroke of the needle. The second stroke forced him to gnash his teeth together. The third blackened his vision.

She murmured her apologies, and he grunted through pursed lips.

Miss McGarden shifted closer to have a better angle. Their height difference was laughable, and she had to rise on her knees and bend forward just to reach his forehead. She wasn't aware that she had leaned her side against his arm to keep from losing her balance. She didn't know that her brows were pulled into a knot, or that she hadn't blinked for several minutes. She also didn't know that, due to her posture and her torn button-down, Mister Redfox had an interesting vantage point, should he choose to peer just a little ways below her collarbone.

And he did.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you to every reader, silent or otherwise, who has taken time for this story :) All feedback is appreciated; you guys rock! Hope you enjoyed the latest chapter. And fun fact about me: I actually know how to ballroom dance. I'm not fantastic at it, but I can hold my own in a tango. Now, for some news.**

 **University is hell for me; I'm studying at 5AM and I don't get home to my apartment until 8PM. And that's before I start my assignments. So, I'm busy. I've never been this busy at college before, but I guess there's a first for everything. I don't know when the next update will be, but I will try not to keep everyone waiting.**

 **Secondly, this week has been very rough for me and my family. My grandmother passed away on Monday, so the wake, the funeral, all the family... it's all taken its toll on me, so if I'm a bit quiet on FFnet, I'm recuperating. Writing or drawing is usually my way of channeling my emotions, hence why there is this chapter to begin with, but now I just need some alone time with my family. Thank you for understanding.**

 **Thirdly, I am working on a cover for SfH. I posted a preview of it on my tumblr, rustyopal, but here's the thing: I've never used tumblr before, so I have no idea if I posted it right. Frankly, I don't know how to use tumblr. Eh, I suck D;**

 **And finally, feedback for your reviews from the last chapter!**

 **JadeOccelot: Mmmm, you have a point that now that they're alone without the risk of Jose overhearing, they can do some talking. Is Gajeel willing to talk? Eh, we shall see.**

 **levyredfoxx3: Hey, glad you're enjoying the story :D and by all means, ask your questions! I'll answer them to the best of my ability without giving away too much ;) gotta keep up the ~suspense~**

 **Kanpai: I hope that this chapter lived up to your expectations :)**

 **Demonicruler17: Thanks, I'm glad you liked it! :D As for me, I liked writing this chapter; Levy dragging Gajeel around is fun to write XD**

 **Mewhee89: Oh geez, I knew we all didn't like Boze, but I never realized to that extent! You have a very vivid imagination. And as for Levy's blabbering, well... This story is an adventure, but it's also a romance. My style of writing romance is to really develop it; I don't like writing or reading fast-paced romances. That's just me. To put into perspective, my Skyrim fanfiction Normalcy Undone has 44 chapters, and my main couples have yet to actually become main couples. I'm not saying that it will take over 44 chapters for Gajeel and Levy to have a romance, but it's going to take time. Time is good. Time allows for interactions to happen. Interactions are good.**

 **Painting Dandelions: I lost so much sleep staying up writing this. Thanks for reading! :)**

 **Usweasil: Thanks for sticking around; I appreciate it! Hope you liked this new chapter!**

 **Andrea: Hey, glad you liked it! Hope you enjoyed this new chapter too :D**

 **ladybeth4: Thank you, I need all the luck I can get! :)**

 **xblood kittenx: Daenerys had a point there, but can Boze's stupidity kill a dragon? Ho hum, ho hum. And hey, good luck with school! :)**


	7. To Wash and to Hide

"Shit," he hissed once she pulled another length of gut. His skin felt tight, like someone was yanking on the studs lining his eyebrow. More than once, dots danced across his vision, and he refused to blink them away; her hands were shaking enough, and he didn't want to risk being jabbed in the eyeball. And so when his eyes would water, he'd squint and count his breaths.

Worse still, his particular viewpoint was a disappointment. Hardly any curves filled out the triangles of her brassiere. Yet his eyes would flicker back at the drooped opening of her button-up, for there was nothing better to look at.

 _"Shit!"_ he snarled; she was tying the ends of the gut, now. The lengths of the straps around his wrists were pulled taut, and his knuckles strained against his gloves. "Could ya make 'em any tighter?" By steel, his blood was drumming in his veins.

She paused, her mouth twisted in thought. He braced himself for another bite of the needle. Instead, he was rewarded with her quiet, "I'm sorry."

And then she dripped more of his whisky on the finished suture. Her shoulders hunched from his snarls, and she edged away from him. Realizing that her hands were still shaking, she rubbed them together to calm her nervous energy. Her chains clinked together. "I'm sorry," she murmured again. "Should I wrap it again?"

"How should I know?" he spat. He exhaled after noticing she ducked her chin into her collarbone. She looked like a turtle trying to hide in its shell—a blue, tiny Viathan turtle. "Probably," he grumbled once the percussion ensemble in his skull took a rest.

"Okay," she squeaked. She wrapped a new yard of gauze around his forehead and scooted back a safe distance once she finished. He was testing the straps again, tugging with one arm and then trying the other.

"'Nother one of your precautions?" he asked. His head lolled onto his shoulder; the room was spinning again.

"Yes," she said. Miss McGarden stared at her hands, not knowing what else to do. A blush creeped up her neck; he was muttering swears beneath his breath while trying to undo her handiwork, and she'd never known that such colorful profanities existed. "You should probably rest," she blurted at last.

"Yeah? Close my eyes so you can tighten 'em more?" he asked.

"Your eyes are closed," she said.

He started—Black Steel and his armies, his skull was _screaming—_ and the room came whooshing back into vision. Steel, iron, copper, aluminum— _why_ did it have to be spinning! "Watchin' me, are you?" he asked. "Huh. Thought that was your style."

"My— _you—"_ She slammed her hands in the sand and raised her chin, not that he'd have to even move his neck to remain looking into her eyes. "I could have left you. I could still leave you."

Oh, his smirk was infuriating, and his next words set her blood boiling. "You don't have the guts for that, shortstuff."

She looked away from him and blinked in an effort to school her expression. Mavis, she could feel her anger swim up into her irises. His pleased chuckle was the last straw; she stood, abruptly, and dusted her khakis off. Picking her way through the sand, she walked around the pillar.

And left him.

He blinked and forced his head to the side, as far as he could, and called out, "O-oi!" She did not respond. He shouted again. "Librarian!" He strained his head against the pillar, feeling like his vertebrae were rusted like the old forges Karma hosted. His scalp pinched, and he gasped.

His skull was full of a lightheaded fog. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he tried to root himself to his surroundings. The sounds of his breathing, the water, the crackle of the braziers—he squinted: the sight of his tied hands. Mister Redfox tugged and yanked on his bindings until they squeezed his wrists and halted the bloodflow to his hands.

The bathhouses were so big and vast, and he was just one person. The braziers flickered.

"Researcher, actually," he heard her mumble from beyond the pillar. An ounce of clarity returned to him, enough for him to fully open his eyes. He felt like ice had been injected into his brain, if that was possible—surely, the syringe wouldn't be wide enough? Tilting his head and ignoring the pounding in his skull, he frowned at the sound of water splashing. Oh by steel, frowning was not a good idea; the action tugged at his piercings and stitches.

"What are you doin'?" By rusted metal, despite his stitches, his frown deepened.

"Washing," came her clipped answer.

"Washing what?"

"Mister Redfox," he heard her huff, "I am taking advantage of the fact that we are in the bathhouses, and that there is a steady stream of water here. I am taking a bath."

"A bath?"

"Yes," she said. "It's what people do when they're sweaty, dirty, been-urinated-on, tired, sandy—"

"You're takin' a bath," he growled, "while I'm sittin' here losing all feeling in my hands? Coulda untied me, at least, while you enjoy your little bubble bath."

The water splashed suddenly—violently—and he guessed she'd just smacked her hands against the surface. The thought of her throwing a tantrum in her makeshift tub cracked a smirk across his mouth. He leaned his head back against the pillar and tried to make himself comfortable. His next thought was too good to keep to himself, and with a smug grin, he said, "Guess it's true what they say about Viathans and their spas."

Something wet landed against his thigh. The soggy bundle of cloth was stained red. His bindings offered enough slack for him to hold the soaked cotton and look it over. "Oi! You hurt? Are you bleeding?" For a brief moment, the world tilted until he leaned his head back against the pillar.

Her voice was sweet—too sweet, like the overpriced candy vendors sold at fairs. "Just my uterus," she chirped.

It took a moment for him to comprehend her words, and when he did, he couldn't fling the cloth away fast enough. He heard a triumphant giggle from behind his pillar. "Viathan wench," he grumbled. "There's soap in my duffel. Too bad; if you untied me, I woulda given it to you."

"If I untied you," she started, her voice having lost its bite. There was a lengthy pause, and he did everything he could not to look at the red blotch her absorbent cloth left on his khakis. She spoke as if she was reciting a passage from a dirge, and not one of her precious tomes. No, if she'd been reading from a tome detailing Ferroc, her voice would have been pitched with awe and wonder. "If I untied you, you might hit me again."

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. Soft splashes punctuated the silence stretching between them. Squirming, he stared at his duffel, at all of the knots and twists she'd put into his belt to attach it to his waist. "Nah," he said. He grinned, then. "Not gonna hit you when Jose ain't here to see it." His arms were bound, yes, but his legs were a different story. His grin widening, he pulled his knees to his chest.

"You mean when you don't have to fake your loyalty," she said with a tone that was too knowing, too coy for his liking.

"Watch it," he growled. "Walkin' on ice." There: now he could reach his duffel. He bumbled through the outer flaps until he came across the wrapped bar of soap.

"You mean I'm onto something," she said.

"Stick to researching Karma, chatterbox. I'm gettin' tired of hearing your theories."

"Oh?" she challenged. He'd be damned, but his scowl worsened. "Well, I'm tired of _you,_ Mister Redfox! All you've done so far is drag me from worse to worst." The water splashed. "I have questions, Mister Redfox."

"And I don't gotta answer 'em."

"My mouth is bleeding, Mister Redfox. I'm black and blue all over, I'm so skinny I can see my ribs and hips, my feet are blistered and cut, my hair was ripped out, and—"

"And you're ramblin' again," he interrupted when she finally took a breath. "You wouldn't be talkin' like this if I was untied."

"Of course not!" she shrieked. He scowled from hearing her pant and splash through the water. "If you were untied, I'd have another bruise!"

He listened to her huff, pant, and smack the water. She was an angry Viathan turtle, now, and he wasn't too partial to her snapping bite. "Tch," he grunted. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the bar of soap flying over his shoulder. Her gasp accompanied the _plop!_ it made in the water.

"W-what is this?" he heard her ask.

"It's soap, loudmouth. What else you think it is?" The room was tilting again, or maybe he'd slumped on his side. His eyes drooped closed.

"I don't understand," she quietly said.

He wanted his reply to be smart and smug to the point the room reeked of his satisfaction—to spit the smarmy venom she'd snapped at him before. Instead, his voice came out slurred. "It's what people use when they stink like you, chatterbox." She said something in turn, but it was as if his ears had closed with his eyes.

His neck and shoulders jostled this way and that. He managed to peep his eyes open, and there was that tiny blue Viathan turtle, gripping him and shaking him this way and that. Steel and iron, that felt _awful,_ and he was sure that his head would split open. Or roll off his shoulders. Maybe that would be good, his addled brain mused: if he let out a bit of blood, maybe he'd alleviate the pressure knocking around in his skull. Yes, that made sense to him.

" _Mister Redfox—!"_

He couldn't blink, he realized, because she had his eyelid peeled back. Grumbling something, probably to tell her to get her little Viathan hands off of him, he tried again to close his eyes.

"Do _not_ fall asleep—!"

She was soaking wet, her khakis drenched and her blouse transparent in some areas. Without all that dirt on her face, he absently noted, he could see all the blue and purple blossoms on her jaw, her mouth, her brow. The light from the braziers danced and flickered across her cheeks. Scabs dotted her lips and chin. She looked better with the dirt on; that way, all those blossoms were hidden.

He'd have told her that her hair looked like soggy seaweed, if his brain still had a connection to his vocal cords. It was a good jab—Viathans and their precious water, and all that.

Her small librarian— _researcher—_ hands shook his shoulders again. He needed to ground himself, to tether himself to the room. Yet every time she shook him and pleaded for him to stay awake, the ties to his conscious state of mind loosened; he floated just a bit further away. His eyes crossed, and he focused on her face, on the tip of her button nose. Ferroc and Viath, everything was melting in a dizzy, boggy goop.

Eyes slipping down, his brain buzzed one more thought before his tethers snapped and he was flung into his dreamworld: her blouse, stained transparent from the water over her bust, still did not hide anything worth peeking at.

Miss McGarden scrambled to catch him before he toppled over onto his side. He was a very heavy man, she knew this, and all of his limp weight tested her arms. Still pleading with him not to fall asleep, she righted him against the pillar and shook him by the vest.

His eyes did not open.

"Wake _up,_ Mister Redfox!" The grips on his revolvers jostled against her hands. She blinked, realizing she hadn't disarmed him before, and that his firearms were still in reach of his hands, even if he was tied.

He had every opportunity to—

Gasping, she yanked his twin revolvers out and tossed them in the sand as if they'd bite her. She hunched her shoulders and rubbed her arms, though the room was far from cold. A cry strangled itself from her throat, and she ducked her head into her collarbone.

She did not know what to do.

Forcing her shrieks into even gasps, she looked up at Mister Redfox. He hadn't moved an inch, he was pale like the dead, and his chest rose and fell in shallow crests and troughs. Her own breathing wasn't reliable; she'd quake and tremble after halfway filling her lungs with the scorching air. She grasped her hands to keep them from shaking. He would not wake up, no matter how hard she shook him. Miss McGarden was no doctor, but she knew he had a concussion, and sleeping…

Dismally, she wondered if he'd want to be buried or cremated. Her curiosity shoving her further down that rabbit hole, she pondered if she even had the strength to bury him. She didn't have it in her to set another person, living or dead, afire and watch them become nothing but ash.

The snakes would be happy, at least.

And then a jolt stabbed through her throat as if his revolvers had barked and spat their bullets at her. Nodding, she stared at her unconscious company, trying to find something— _anything—_ to anchor herself to that room and not lose herself to the panicked spiral inside of her head.

 _One thing at a time._

She sucked in a breath and held it until her lungs burned. Yes. There would be no thoughts of burials, no ideas of cremations, and no nightmares about snakes feasting away at his corpse, routing holes throughout his body to carve their own systems and functions—

 _No._

A dull ache set behind her eyes, and she narrowed her brows. No. None of that until he wasn't as he was right now: alive.

She would keep her vigil, like the ancient sentinels who had so carefully and systematically guarded the borders of Ferroc, until he awoke.

* * *

The world colored itself back to Gajeel in drips and drops of reds, browns, and oranges. He blinked, and the colors bled together. By Karma, it was as if he was looking into a pile of mud—as if he was drowning in mud. Blinking felt like ice water was being poured into his eyeballs, but every blink and flutter cleared away the mud, until he was left with the dizzy bathhouse.

Panting, he tried to uncross his eyes. Everything was doubled—the pillars, the braziers, the arches, all of it. The sound of rushing water was loud in his ears. Swallowing, he braced himself when his neck could no longer support his head. His cheek brushed against his shoulder, and his panting became labored gulps of air. His tongue was dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Peeking through his fluttering eyelids, he arched a brow—a horrible mistake on his part—after seeing the trick his eyes were playing on him: there were two librarians, _researchers,_ now, instead of one. They were curled into a ball a safe distance away from him, most likely another _precaution,_ and dozing. Their brows were pulled together, as if there was a nagging pounding there. Hell, he'd ought to know; his own skull felt like it had a knife sticking out of it.

His world was colored black, and after several moments, he came to the conclusion that he'd closed his eyes again. Peeling them open, he breathed in relief when the two researchers merged into one. He snorted, the action jostling his poor noggin, but he could not help to grunt at the sight. Of course the typical Viathan would make herself comfortable and catch some Z's while he was struggling to put his head on right, if his head was even on at all. Maybe it had fallen off his neck and landed in the sand somewhere by his hip. That would explain why the room was still tilting.

Gajeel was about to let his body do what was best for him, but that would have to be put on hold. A rattle filled the air, and one of Karma's devils was sliding through the sand. He shouted for the stupid girl to _open her damn eyes!_ But all that came out of his mouth was a croak. His heart galloped and threatened to burst through his ribcage, and red began dotting his vision. Gajeel's eyes may have been toying with him before, however he did not care. Trick or no, he needed his revolver. _Now._

His guns were not on him anymore. The straps binding his wrists allowed him enough slack to pat and grip his vest. They weren't _there,_ and he needed them. Croaking out a swear from the devil slithering closer and from his forehead igniting in pain, he whipped his head side to side. His guns were in the sand, he saw. If this was another one of the idiot researcher's damned precautions, he'd have to start enforcing his own rules. He tried to reach for the closer of the pair. His arm hadn't fully extended before those damn straps tugged on him. The straps gave just a bit, the beginnings of a tear spreading where he pulled them taut against the pillar, but it wasn't enough. It wouldn't be enough.

Gnashing his teeth together, he twisted his hips, kicked his legs out, and tried to hook the toe of his boot around the trigger guard. Risky, but she hadn't given him many options. Slouching down along the pillar, he growled and bared his teeth. He still had several inches before reaching his gun, and his hips were not made to bend at this angle. Gajeel thrashed and yanked on the straps. He had slack, just not enough—

Kicking through the sand so that he was once again sitting up, he bent one arm around the pillar as far as it could go, and then tugged the slack with his other arm. He swiveled and scooched his way around the pillar. Had the devil not been so _close_ , he'd have smirked in victory and boasted that her little plan wasn't entirely as foolproof as she thought it was. But the devil was close.

Now, stretching his leg out, he toed his revolver and kicked it closer until he could reach the grip with his hands.

* * *

Viathans, history would recount, were proud of their culture, yet they were a modest folk, preferring their research, waterworks, and philosophy over warfare. A Viathan's strengths were her wit, curiosity, and emotional intellect. Textbooks would describe Old Viath as a place for the scholar, for the lover, the poet, and the scientist. The northern land, pictured green and blue with life on any modern map of Desierto, was indeed home to a fine civilization.

However, like the water they so dearly worshipped, Viathans were known for their emotions to trickle throughout their veins or swallow them whole in a raging tide—or, in Miss McGarden's case, for her emotional fatigue to welcome in a pounding migraine fit to bursting her skull.

And so it was that her vigil was premature at best. Had she been a descendant of Ferroc, no doubt her eyes would have been peeled until the scorching air sizzled them to prunes in their sockets.

She never did like prunes.

When she squinted her eyes open, she was welcomed back to the bathhouse by a pinch between her brow that threatened to explode into another horrible migraine if she moved her head too suddenly or the wrong way—like a leaky dam ready to burst. The second thing she noticed was the sand stuck to her chin, cheek, and tongue. She flapped her lips and spat.

The third thing she noticed was the business end of Mister Redfox's revolver pointed at her head. Her eyes widened until the room became blurry and all she could focus on was _his_ eyes. There was fury in them, a dark satisfaction swimming in his red irises. He'd take pleasure in this, she realized. She couldn't find her voice, didn't know where it went, and all she _could_ find was fear lodging in her throat. Miss McGarden knew for certain now that the snakes would be happy.

His revolver barked, the sound enough to pierce through the shackles seizing her brain. Gasping, she was rewarded with the taste of copper filling her mouth. Sticky clumps splattered on her forehead. She shrieked and sprang to her feet, holding her head and wailing. Just as quickly, she fell back to her knees and buried her forehead in the sand. _"Stop it, stop it!"_ she screamed. Her fingers tugged at her blue Viathan hair.

Her shoulders jumped at the sound of a thud. She lifted her head to find that Mister Redfox had lowered his revolver. His head was thrown back, his eyes squeezed closed, and sweat dripped to the collar of his button-down. Then he regarded her with one eye, watching as she searched her person for the bullet entry like a madwoman.

"Lucky," he wheezed. She paused and gawked at him as if he'd pull the trigger again. "Yer… lucky," he repeated. He nodded to where she had been sleeping, and with seconds of hesitance on her part, she followed his gaze.

What was left of the rattlesnake was everything besides its head. Her mouth must have fallen to her knees. She looked back and forth between the snake carcass and Mister Redfox, who was panting and struggling to even squint at her. "Lucky," she murmured, subconsciously, beneath her breath.

And then she noticed that his gun was still in his hand. She grasped her chest to keep her heart from escaping. "Give me your gun," she said quietly.

He frowned, hissing, and croaked, "No."

"Give me your gun, Mister Redfox."

"No," he said again. He flashed his eyes open and, after running his dry tongue over his cracked lips, did his best to snarl, "Ain't gonna give you a damned thing, lady, 'cept maybe another scare or two. Take my guns away again, and next time I'll let the snake bite you. Rattlesnakes are poisonous, yeah? Well I ain't goin' by poison." He sank against the pillar and rested his head on his shoulder. Oh steel, it felt like his brain had just sloshed around inside of his skull.

Enough clarity returned to his sloshing brain after hearing the sound of the hammer on his revolver being cocked with a _click!_ That wasn't right, either—his revolver was in his hand; he hadn't thumbed the hammer.

"I said give me the gun, Mister Redfox."

This time, he was staring down the barrel of his gun. The Viathan wench had snatched his other revolver, and she stood, legs spread apart, both hands wrapped around the grip panels, sighting him down. Her form was good, he appraised, even if her legs shook like a newly born deer's.

So the Viathan _researcher_ knew how to use a gun.

Slowly, he righted himself, ignoring her stuttered demand for him to drop his gun. He smirked. A drop of sweat slid down his nose. "So? Got it in ya, shortstuff?" There it was: the voice of Jose's pet, all dark timbre and criminal promises.

She wetted her lips and straightened her posture. "Drop it." He raised his gun, and she followed the movement with the muzzle of his stolen revolver. Her chains rattled. " _Fi'nnek haskara,_ I said _drop it!"_

He cocked his gun and, using his knee as a prop due to his binds, aimed it at her head. "Wanna see who's faster?" he drawled in a rumble that permeated her to the marrow.

"I-I mean it," she yelped. Her voice had risen an octave. "So help me, Mister Redfox, I _mean it!"_ She stood her ground, her finger twitching over the trigger, and did not look away from those horrible red eyes. "Give me," she growled, "your gun."

"Tch. Not gonna happen, lady." He released the hammer, the minuscule action warranting Miss McGarden to jerk her revolver in anger. She barked a surprising _I am warning you, Mister Redfox!,_ and he arched a brow at the bite to her voice. This little turtle knew how to snap. He smirked; he enjoyed testing her, to see determination war with her morality in those big eyes. Her bravado, he could see through, but her resolution was refreshing.

He could respect that, in time.

Raising his hands, _slowly,_ for she took a daring step closer, he pointed the barrel of his gun at the ceiling. "Not gonna happen," he said again. And then, playing his cards right, he slid his gun back into the holster on his vest. "Ain't giving you this one. That one, though," he said, nodding at the revolver shaking in her grasp, "is yours."

The unspoken _for now_ echoed about in the room. There was danger in his eyes, a deadly promise that one way or the other, he'd have his gun back. And she may not be on the safe side of it, either.

"Next snake that slithers past you," Gajeel scowled, "shoot it yerself."

Miss McGarden swallowed and lowered the gun a fraction. "I suppose that's fair," she said after clearing her throat.

He flashed his canines and tilted his head. "And yer pronunciation is horse shit. It's _hashkar'ra,_ not _haskara._ " That fire reigned ruler in her big eyes, and she raised her gun once more, then lowered it. "Careful," he chided, crossing his arms. "Ain't you Viathans all about peace? Don't go gettin' your ancestors' panties in a knot, darlin'."

She gasped, then, realizing what she had done—what she had _almost_ done. Swallowing a breath, she released the hammer and slipped the revolver in the waist of her khakis. Her chains rattled. "You would know, wouldn't you, Mister Redfox?" Yes, that was good. Toe the line of his precious privacy to keep him from noticing her weakness, yes. That was good.

He clicked his tongue in a mockery scolding. "Watch yourself, shortstack. Keep pokin' me, and I'll bite." Gajeel made to show his teeth, but then he coughed and choked. If possible, his mouth decided to dry even further. He gagged out a croak, and then turned his head hoping that his hair would hide the color he felt creeping up his neck. That wasn't a good idea, for his brain sloshed to the other side of his skull. _Fi'nn!_

He heard the sand shift. She had edged closer to him. "A-are you thirsty?" she asked. The hesitance was thick in her voice. She may as well have blurted out that she did not trust him and did not want to give him water. But Viathans were generous with their precious water, and she did not have it in her to deny a parched man a drink.

Gajeel snorted and rolled his eyes. "Nah, I'm right-tight dandy."

"You don't have your canteen?"

"It's empty," he said. "Somebody decided to chuck it at me." He had refilled and guzzled down his canteen after she had so rudely declined the water, but she didn't need to know that. Biting her lip, she skirted around him, her chains clinking together, and knelt beside the running water. "Takin' another dip?" he sneered after hearing her splash something in the water. She returned to him a moment later, holding a soggy bundle of cloth.

"Here," she said, kneeling down next to him. He scrutinized the bundle. His mouth turned down at a corner. There were red flecks in the cloth that he was wary of, and— "It's my bandana," she said. "Don't worry, Mister Redfox: that _other_ cloth is back where it belongs."

He did not need that image in his sloshing brain.

"Just be quiet, Mister Redfox," she said with another bite to her voice. He wanted to point out that he hadn't said a word. She held the cloth to his mouth, and with a sigh, he tilted his head back. She squeezed the cloth, and he caught the drops. The water tasted awful, like sweat, dirt, and blood—hopefully the chit was telling the truth and it wasn't _that_ type of blood. He had to remind himself that he had swallowed piss for this waif of a girl, and with that thought in mind, he decided there were worse things to taste.

Still. He ought to have forced her to eat that pissy hunk of bread when he had the chance. Maybe then the little fool would—

Gajeel raised a brow, following her blouse down to the revolver tucked at her waist. It was within reach; all he had to do was grab it. The stupid girl. This was too easy.

Gajeel Redfox did not like easy.

Smirking, he would let her have her little Viathan victory. He swallowed the last of the water and smacked his lips. She frowned at him, and scooted away when he reached up to wipe his mouth on his glove. The damned straps didn't even let him touch his own face. Huffing, he rubbed his mouth against his shoulder.

"How is your head?" she asked once she noticed he was staring at her.

"You're watchin' me," he murmured.

Oh, indeed, she watched those hands, watched every move they made. Every time they would brush over his vest, her fingers would slip to her revolver, and her lungs would choke the air out of her body. And when his hands would fall back to the sand sans a gun, she would find it in her to suck in a tiny breath.

"No, I'm not."

"Huh."

"Does it still hurt?" she quickly asked, gesturing to her own forehead.

"Hurt?" he smirked. "Getting punched hurts, sweetheart. You know what that feels like, don't you? This is agony, is what."

"You should rest," she said. She stood over the snake carcass and turned it over so that it was belly-up. At least, she thought it was belly-up, what with its head being blown clear off. "But don't fall asleep. You can't fall asleep."

"Yeah?" he grunted. "Just sit while you waltz around here, doing—" He bit his tongue. She had a knife in her hand, no doubt stolen from his duffel, and was slicing a slit in the snake. "The hell are you doin'?"

"Ever eat snake before, Mister Redfox?" He clicked his tongue and scoffed. Nodding, she continued with a clipped tone, "You only have so much jerky, Mister Redfox. I'd rather not eat all of it before we have to." She widened the slit a bit.

"Don't think you can eat all of it yourself, halfpint," he snickered. She forcefully yanked open the skin on either side of the slit, and he pursed his lips. "You sure know what you're doin' over there," he commented.

She didn't answer him, just continued pulling the skin off of the snake. Her face was pale in this light, even though she ripped open the snakeskin as if she was peeling an orange. The skin caught on the rattle, and with a swift tug, she took the skin and the rattle off of the carcass. He was both fascinated and feeling a bit green about the gills.

And maybe a tad delighted to see the snake meet such a fate.

"Sure you can eat it if it's poisonous?" he asked.

"Venomous," she corrected. He rolled his eyes. "Its head is gone, and I plan on cooking it. So yes, I can eat it if it's _venomous._ "

He had a list of words he'd have liked to call her. Oh, did he have some slurs on the tip of his tongue. Gajeel chose to just do as she said and _rest_ while watching her prepare her snake filet. The damned broad had fetched her torch, turned it so the wick-end wasn't facing the snake, and then—

Steel, copper, aluminum, iron, silver, gold—she'd shimmied the torch through the cavity left from the gunshot until the length of the torch was just flesh. Bones snapped and organs squelched. Curling a lip, he shook his head. She shuffled over to the braziers, and then began roasting her snake-on-a-stick.

Oh, did he have a story for his partner.

"Doesn't smell too good," he called out. His voice rang in his ears, and he winced. She ignored him yet again. Fine. He'd just have to wait until she came toddling back over. She couldn't ignore him if he was three feet in front of her. When she was done grilling her snake, she sat more than three feet away from him, and he scowled.

The meat was charred in some places, perhaps as another precaution. One thing he knew for sure was that Miss _Researcher_ over there needed lessons in the culinary arts. He'd be damned if he ever gave them to her.

"That looks gross," he said. She didn't stop chewing. The meat was mostly bone. She'd take a bite, and then have to pluck small, medium, _pointy_ bones out of her mouth. "Taste like chicken?"

Well, damn him, but she ignored him. Muttering, he sank against his pillar and stared at his duffel.

Her voice startled him. "You should eat something," she finally said. He smirked. Now _he_ was the one going to ignore her.

…she did not press the issue.

"We should move," she said instead. "Out of the bathhouse."

"Givin' me orders?" he rumbled.

She glared at him and said, "No, Mister Redfox, I am merely stating a mutual interest of ours. I don't think you want to die down here, and I sure as all that is holy do _not_ want to kick the bucket before I convince the museum that Karma exists. That _Ferroc_ exists."

"That all you want?" he growled. "To claim something that ain't yours? Lady, it exists and has existed for thousands of years, much longer than your little museum. You got no right trying to put Karma in an exhibit."

"Is that what the problem is?" She crawled closer to him and pointed an accusatory snake-on-a-stick at him. "You think that history should just stay down here infested with roaches and snakes? That people shouldn't _know_ about their history?"

He snorted and crossed his arms, trying to ignore the snake hovering just beneath his chin. "The only people who have any right to know about Karma are the descendants. You should know that, lady. Look what happened to Viath. It's a tourist trap now. Spas, shitty food, bubblebaths. Think that should be done to Karma?"

"No," she huffed. "Economic reasons and historical reasons are two different—"

"Yet they go hand in hand," he barked. He leaned as much as he could against the straps. He felt a bit of leeway, and the sound of fabric tearing was music to his ears, regardless if her stick now dug into his collarbone. "Think Karma deserves to be a place with a bunch of parents tugging around their brats, keepin' em from climbing up the pillars? All starin' and pointin' and acting like they own the goddamned place?"

"Is that what you think will happen?" she growled.

"Yes!" He strained against the straps. Her stick was leaving a mark in his neck.

"Well, I don't think it deserves to be raided and plundered like it's for the taking! You, Mister Redfox," she spat, throwing aside the torch and placing her palms on either side of his face, "are a hypocrite! Ferroc is part of Desierto's history. By Mavis, Oro used to be a hub for merchants when it was still part of Ferroc! You're a thief, Mister Redfox—a scoundrel, a criminal—and you've no right to decide what happens to Ferroc when you—"

The straps snapped. Every muscle in his body was taut and pressing against his skin. He dove forward, a snarl raging from his lips and those horrible lines twisting his face, and held her down: one arm across her chest, the other hand yanking on her Viathan hair to trap her in his furious gaze. His duffel, still attached at his waist, dug into her middle. She hadn't time to so much as gasp. She lay there, his Viathan prisoner, gaping at him and trying to suck in a breath he would not allow.

"I told you," he spat, bringing his face centimeters from hers, "to shut your mouth, you _fi'nnek achig. Varla en'nek hashkar'ra peta't!"_ He pressed harder on her sternum, earning a croak from her. "I have every right to decide what happens, you damn broad." From the corner of his eye, he saw her hand going to her revolver. Her legs kicked out, disrupting the sand. "You can research Karma all you want, beg your little museum to believe ya, make up your own stories about Black Steel, but Karma ain't yours."

Instead of the gun, her tiny hands pawed at his chest. He did not budge. Her pallor matched her hair color. He yanked on that Viathan hair. "No one's gonna find you down here, lady. Hell, we don't even know where _here_ is. So if you know what's best fer ya, you'll quit flapping your gums 'fore I rip out your tongue." His arm released her chest. She gulped down air, but was choking again when he grabbed her jaw and dug his thumb and forefinger beneath her ears, forcing her mouth open. The scent of something foul tickled his nose and made him scowl. "I'll cut it out, and I'll toss it in your precious water. Got it?"

Her head jerked back and forth, and he assumed that was a nod. Snarling, he pushed himself off of her and climbed to his feet. His legs were shaking, and he hobbled over to the pillar for support. Leaning his forehead against the broken column, he panted and wiped his face, hearing her gasps and gulps and sobs. Idly, he fumbled with the buckles on his duffel.

"Get some sleep," he muttered, staring at the rushing water. It had gotten louder. "We'll leave when you wake up."

Miss McGarden lay there in the piss-soaked sand, clutching her throat and scarfing down air as if it were fodder. Her eyes rolled beneath their lids. Her chains rattled. Her fingers traced where the new blossoms on her body would bloom. Despite her runny nose, her heaving chest and spooked eyes, the corner of her mouth quirked.

She had felt it. What was once safely hidden by his shemagh, oval-like and metal, was now safely wrapped around his thigh. Her smile widened into a toothy grin; her tongue darted out to poke at her upper lip.

That _haskara_ had hidden Karma's most precious metal beneath his worthless jewels.

* * *

 **A/N: 10/24/16: So, I got a message from a reader who had no shame telling me how I should write my story and that "Gajeel and Levy should have kissed by now." Lol wut. Let me say this LOUD AND CLEAR for those of you who want a quick romance to read: LOOK ELSEWHERE. And don't tell me how to write MY story :) because then you look like a little you know what, and your message goes right to the garbage bin :) Don't like? Don't read :)**

 **Hey, everyone! I am back and writing; thank you all for your kind words and understanding :) They mean a great deal to me. Thank you!**

 **So, a couple of updates and fun facts about me before I reply to reviews. I'm a Penn Stater (University Park!), so campus is CRAZY because we beat Ohio yesterday. I don't really understand football, but I can join in on the pride and the hype and celebrating. WE ARE! (sorry XD) Also, if you have a concussion, it is OKAY to go to sleep. Just have someone watch over you and wake you up periodically to make sure you're all still there and are aware of your surroundings. IF YOU ARE NOT ALL THERE AND ARE NOT OKAY, hopefully the other person watching you will take you to the hospital ASAP. The reason why Levy is adamant Gajeel stays awake is because during their time period, it was believed that you should not go to sleep if you have a concussion. Theirs is an outdated belief.**

 **Aaaand time to answer some reviews:**

 **Painting Dandelions: Thank you; what you said is very poetic and art in itself. :) I am touched by your support and understanding, and I am humbled that you consider my writing to be art. Thank you!**

 **JadeOccelot: Yes, let the bonding begin AFTER they sort out their differences XD let's keep in mind that Levy is still afraid of him; she obviously hasn't watched Fairy Tail, teehee. And :( I'm sorry for your loss. If you need someone to vent to, or just want to talk about it, I'm a PM away.**

 **MundaneAshuri: I think what's sexy about it is the trust Gajeel has of letting someone tie him up. Like, he's ridiculously strong and can probably break through being tied up, but given the right context... Well, trust is sexy, to put it simply. Ehhh, I'll stop XD**

 **Guest 1 (sorry for numbering!): Thank you so much! I'm glad you can picture everything so well :) Thanks for staying for the ride!**

 **levyredfoxx3:** **Thank you! I try to be brilliant! And yeah, they're both probably mighty ripe. Eeeeewww.**

 **Weezel474: I mean, yeah Levy is attractive. At the moment? Ehhh, she's kinda um... not at her best. BUT ONE DAY!**

 **Andrea: Oh, thank you! That means a lot :) And oh my god, thank you for reading! I'm so thrilled that everyone likes what I'm writing. Usually Gajevy stories are fluffy. There will be fluffy in this story, juuuust as soon as we pass all the spikes, hurtles, gaps, craters... yeah. XD**

 **Mewhee89: Thank you, thank you! :) And yes, she definitely deserved that soak! Hope you enjoyed this chapter too :)**

 **Winter: Lol I started writing this the evening before a very important exam, heehee. Thanks for taking the time to read! :)**

 **Guest 2 (sorry for numbering!): Thank you, that means a lot to me :) And hey, he is a heterosexual man! It's natural ;)**

 **pinklotusflower22: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter too!**

 **Starrystar: Thank you so much!**

 **Shadowwolf1997: heehee, how can you almost hear something? Ah, I'm just teasing you :) Thanks for reading!**

 **DragoonHearted: Oh, you and me both! Brendan Fraser has such a masculine sarcastic vibe about him. He isn't a pretty boy like how Brad Pitt was years ago (sorry to all Pitt lovers; I'm just not very attracted to men who are "pretty"). And thanks so much! I'm glad I've got you thinking about different possibilities. And about Gajeel having more of a face than being a beast, that's exactly what I was going for. I'm so relieved that it worked XD By all means, if you feel comfortable with it, please share your theories. I'd love to give you hints or nudge you along the right path, if you would like that. If not, I totally understand. Thanks again!**

 **reader LM: Oh my goodness, I had to read this a few times to digest all of it. I don't know if you're going to even see this reply, but man, I wish you hadn't reviewed as a guest; I could PM you then! I'm touched that you find me inspiring. I don't think I ever inspired anyone before. I want to say thank you, but I also feel torn. I want you to do what you want to do in life. I want you to be happy. I don't want to be an inspiration to you; I want you to feel at peace with yourself, if that makes sense. I don't want to act like what I'm doing is a piece of cake, or that it isn't something to comment on, but sometimes, I don't please my parents, either. In fact, it feels more often than not, I disappoint them. So many relatives and friends of my family are doing so much cooler things than I am (they're accepted into Harvard, they're working at bulge brackets, they're doing this that and the other thing), and I'm here just doing my thing: I go to class, I do my homework, study, and cook dinner. Might have a beer here and there with a couple of friends. I love writing, I like finance. I'm going to use finance to become a writer and, hopefully, have my work made into a television series. Will it happen? I don't know. Is it a big dream? Yeah, it's a really, really big dream, and I'm just one small person. Urg, my point is that we are all given different cards in life, we all have different things that make us happy that may not make sense to our parents. But it makes sense to us, which is important. I can't tell you how to find ambition. I can't tell you how to make you happy. Only you can do that. It sounds like you enjoy traveling and experiencing different cultures. It sounds like that trip to Asia did you good. I would say explore that! Find out what about that trip changed you so much, and keep following that. If finance wasn't for you, then okay. I won't say it isn't a big deal; you need to be able to support yourself, yeah. But a degree in finance isn't just an opportunity to get a finance job. You can get any job in business with that degree. And if you don't like business anymore, try something more cultural, more community-based. You can even try the Peace Corps. Again, I can't tell you what to do. I can thank you and cheer you on and pray that you find happiness. I don't think you're the type of person who likes being told what to do (who does, really?) But I think you're the type of person who can survive, which is what you've been doing. You can survive, and not all of us can do that. So, good for you, that is fantastic and amazing!**


	8. Waters of Karma

He hadn't needed to wake her up; she had lain on her side, angled so that she could see his hands from her peripherals. Mister Redfox hadn't slept a wink, either. He propped himself against the pillar, occasionally swiping his heavy gaze from the sand to her. Whenever she cast a glance at him, his scowl would prompt her to quickly look away. Likewise, if she caught him scrutinizing her, her burning hazel swiftly averted his piercing red.

And so she lay there, staring at the waters of Karma, oblivious to time and prey to the nightmare staring at her.

By the time Mister Redfox hauled himself to his feet, the skin around her eyes felt tight and a headache pounded her skull. She propped herself up on an elbow, her hand going to her revolver. His back was to her. He stretched and rubbed his neck. Miss McGarden frowned when his hand slid between his shoulder blades; he hissed and immediately withdrew his hand.

"Are you hurt?" she croaked. Her voice sounded too loud in the chamber.

He snorted, not bothering to turn and address her properly. "That's a loaded question." Behind him, he heard the sand shift as she stood. Her chains clinked together. Cracking his neck, he stepped around the pillar to survey the other half of the chamber.

"Are we leaving now?" she quietly asked behind him.

"What do you think," he grunted.

Swallowing, she kept her gaze trained anywhere but on him. She dared herself to comment, "Your master would want you to return me to him, I suppose." From her peripherals, she saw Mister Redfox stiffen; his shoulders hunched and he crossed his arms. His biceps bulged against his button-up.

"Suppose yer right," he grunted. Past the flowing stream, the other half of the bathhouses were unnavigable. Fallen pillars and debris blocked what looked to be the exit. The archways were destroyed, and the threshold of what he assumed to be the door was broken. A slab of rock fell from the doorway, landing in the sand with a thud. Mister Redfox and Miss McGarden both sucked in a breath and stared at the domed ceiling, bracing for any more of it to come falling.

After a moment of silence, they released their collected breath.

"The door isn't an option, then," she said, breaking the heavy silence. She edged closer to his side and followed the slopes of the ceiling. "There aren't any windows in here, either. That would be silly."

He scrutinized the stream. It didn't look deep, but the flow was steady. That meant the water source was also consistent, then. "How'd they empty the baths?" he asked. "Or even fill 'em up?"

"Valves," she said. She glanced at the gap in the wall where the water was rushing from. "It's Viathan technology. The water's being brought in through an aqueduct, controlled by a valve that sections off the water. Probably."

"You mean ya don't know?" There was a bite in his voice, coupled with his mockery.

Her reaction was instantaneous; there was no time to check herself from turning to him, narrowing her eyes, and jabbing a finger against his arm. "Not off the top of my head, Mister Redfox. I'll need to check the books again—" Flapping her lips, she turned her horror-stricken gaze to the sand. "The books," she whispered. "You left the books. Why would you leave the books?"

She jabbed him again, and he frowned. "Careful, there."

"The _books,_ Mister Redfox. The tomes you made me steal from the museum before you whisked me away to Karma. The _books!_ The ancient documents that are worth thousands of times more than your numb bum!" She pummeled her fists against his arm. He wasn't sure what was more annoying: her puny excuse of an attack, or her rattling chains.

Both needed to stop _now,_ his crying brain demanded. Scowling, he grabbed her wrists. She gasped when he swooped his head and kept her hands above his head. "I'll keep that in mind, lady," he growled. "Next time the floor starts shooting burning sand, I won't haul your skinny rump out of the way. Nah, instead I'll pick up your books and make sure no damage came to 'em, page by page. That what you wanted?" Oh, by metal's forge, the chit had that fire burning in her eyes again.

"Those books are bigger than us, Mister Redfox," she said. She struggled against him. He tightened his grip on her wrists.

"Maybe just one of us," he sneered. He should have known by now that the _researcher_ was wont to squash his victories. He had but a second of triumph before her fingers yanked his hair close to his scalp, and by everything under Black Steel's creation, he thought his skull was on fire. Snarling, he tossed her arms away and stood to his full height. With his arms crossed over his chest again, his muscles rippling and his expression one of fury, he was an intimidating sight to behold.

And then the chit crossed her arms and glared up at him with that scrunched face. Either she was brave or stupid, he didn't know, but the soft clinks of her chains punctuated the thick air between them.

Finally, he grunted, "Not like you didn't read the damn books three times already. Thought you were supposed to be the encyclopedia here."

She opened her mouth, and then slammed it close. She opened it again, and then pursed her lips in a thin line. Mavis damn him, but he countered with a very valid point: she knew most of the books verbatim.

He shrugged his wide shoulders and drawled, "Guess ya ain't much of an expert here, huh? If you can't even tell me about the bubble baths."

Huffing through her nostrils, she stalked away from him and navigated the rubble to the gap in the wall. His eyes burned her back, but she continued her march. "Alright, then," she began with a clipped tone once she was beside the gap. "If an aqueduct is bringing the water in, that means the water must empty out somewhere, or else the bathhouses would have been flooded." He took a step into the stream and walked its width. "What part of the country are we in?"

"What, your little books never said where Karma was located?" he snickered. He followed the length of the stream, splashing now and then when he'd venture through deeper water.

"I just want to confirm the reference," she said, her brows pulled together. "But yes: the _textbooks_ and _autobiographies_ suggest that Karma was established in the southern part of Desierto, near the Kanash Gulf. Is that where you brought me, Mister Redfox?"

"It's _Kan'nash,_ " he tossed over his shoulder. She pressed her lips together and counted to ten. Clenching her fists, she released her breath. But then he had to add a snickered, "You're Fioran, alright."

Whirling around, she spat at his back, "And you aren't?" He ignored her. Huffing, she said, "I take that as a _yes,_ we are near the Kanash—" She scrunched her nose when his shoulders quaked. "We're by the Gulf. I think that's where the water is emptying."

"Can't be," he said. "We'd have seen the water pouring into the Gulf on the way here."

"Mister Redfox," she lilted, and he knew he was going to receive a lecture, all bundled up and wrapped in a blue, Viathan bow. He could just imagine her hip jutted out, chin raised, arms crossed. "Since you are so savvy in Desierto's history, I assume you're aware of its geography. And that you're aware that the Gulf is ringed by waterfalls."

She smiled, indeed raising her chin. He had hunched his shoulders. Smiling, she continued, "Unless you can tell which waterfall was crafted by Nature, and which was crafted by man-made tunnels, there is no possible way you would be able to tell that the water here empties into the Gulf." She crossed her arms as he turned around to scowl at her. Oh, that wasn't a good idea; his brain threatened to slosh in his skull. It was like balancing a tray full of food: one sharp turn, and it would all spill over.

"That's okay," she shrugged. "Most Fiorans don't know Desierto's geography, even if the Gulf is one of its more prominent landmarks since waterfalls are rare in the desert half of the country."

"You just love to talk, don't you?" he spat. Slurring beneath his breath, he waded through the stream. The water reached his thigh, now. If she moved to the other side of the stream where he was, her waist would be soaked. He found a quiet victory in that. Another step, and then the water was almost level with his hip. If he didn't have stitches in his forehead, he'd have quirked a studded brow. Instead, he smirked and slid his foot further. The stream was angled downward, and that wasn't a coincidence. Not when he toed smooth tiles.

"There should be pipes," she called out. She leaned her hand against the ruined wall and frowned at the rushing water. "Or tunnels, or something channeling this water." Idly, she bit her nails and mused, "Unless the stream is supposed to be there, and the stream…" She winced; she'd bitten too much off her thumb nail. "Mister Redfox," she called, and turned about. He stood at the opposite wall. He'd waded as far as he could, and the water reached his waist. He was palming the wall, she saw, and hooking his fingers underneath the broken parts to tug this way and that.

"What are you doing?" she said, hurrying over to him. She climbed over fallen pillars and trudged through the sand so she stood on the bank closest to him. The wall was broken about a foot above the surface of the water. Tenting her brows in curiosity, she repeated her question.

"Water's emptyin' out here," he grunted, still inspecting the broken gap, "obviously. So this is our way out."

"Will it lead us back to the conference rooms?" she asked, watching him. He bent his knees to see beneath the gap.

"Ain't trying to get back there," he said. Muttering under his breath, he stood and scanned the bathhouses. "Can't swim under the wall, either. Not enough space." He hoisted himself onto the other side of the bathhouses and started climbing over the rubble. The fallen pillars were steep, and every time his fingers would grab hold onto a jutted slab, the piles would shift, and he'd have to find another hold.

"Careful," she said from her side. "There could be traps." She nibbled on her nails, wincing whenever he'd stumble. At the top of the pile, he slid down to the other side where she could not see him. "Anything?" She heard him curse and the sand shift. Holding her breath, she prayed to Mavis for him to answer her.

"Oi," he barked, and she jumped. "Found your valve. Don't know how to use it, though."

"Well, you turn it," she answered. "Clockwise. Righty tighty, lefty loosey."

"I know that," she heard him snarl. "There's nothing to turn it with." His grunts and groans drifted toward her; he was trying to turn the valve. Judging by his swears, she guessed he was unsuccessful. Lowering her head in thought, Miss McGarden took in a breath and toed the sand. Her chains quietly hissed through the sand. There was a passage, she remembered reading, about when Black Steel conquered the Viathans. His invasion was guerilla, his soldiers ruthless as they tore down the statues of the Viathan goddess, but his surprise was just as powerful as his army. He'd been startled to find that in every monument, baths and pools lined the floors. She remembered reading—a sentence, at most—about the baths needing at least the strength of four men to fill.

Four men to turn one valve. Her brows furrowed. "Are there holes in the valve?"

"Yeah," he answered. "Four of 'em. Somethin' supposed to go in them?"

"I think," she began, wary of his backtalk: _you should know if you're an expert._ "I think the handles slide into the holes. One man per handle, and they rotate it. It was all powered by physical strength; no machinery at all."

"Handles? Or like spokes on a wheel?"

"Exactly!" She hopped up and down on the balls of her feet. She didn't have time to feel embarrassed after hearing Mister Redfox snort at her enthusiasm, for her foot had slid in the sand. Her chain caught on a broken piece of tile, and then she was catapulting into the stream with only a small squeak to sound her fear. The water rushed into her ears and mouth. Submerged in the deep end of the rushing stream, she curled her body into a ball to shift her weight. Scrunched up as she was against the floor of the stream, she sprang her legs out, the momentum propelling her up to the surface of the water.

She spat and wiped her face. Expecting Mister Redfox to be sneering down at her from the bank, she glanced at his side of the bathhouse. He was still grunting and muttering to himself about the valve. Shaking her head, she faced the broken wall. Whereas the water reached his waist, it reached her shoulders, and bouncing on her toes through the water, she bobbed to the gap.

If the water was emptying here, that meant there was a hole. He was too tall and broad to fit through here, but Miss McGarden on the other hand…

Curiosity was both a Viathan's friend and her downfall. Miss McGarden, on more occasion than one, had her curiosity lead her to peculiar places. The museum, Karma, Desierto itself: her curiosity never failed her.

She wouldn't let it fail her this time, either.

Twisting her lips, she ducked her head under the broken wall. The water lapped at her chin. The light from the bathhouses didn't quite reach the tunnel; only a faint shine glowing over the water provided her light. A descendent of the Viathans she was, and Viathans did not fear water.

Bending her knees, she tilted her head backward. She could fit here in this underwater tunnel, maybe follow it to see if it would bring them outside, near the Gulf. She inched her way further into the tunnel, palming the ceiling. The floor beneath her feet angled downward, deepening the water. Squinting, she struggled to see ahead of her. She could make out the outline of something lodged between either side of the tunnel. Only a few inches of it stuck out of the water, but it looked long like a panel or a bar.

"Oi!" Behind her, back in the main portion of the bathhouse, Mister Redfox leapt into the stream. He splashed this way and that, and with a curse, he hunched his shoulders to duck his head under the gap. "The hell are you doin' in there!"

"There's something here," she said. Her voice echoed in the tunnel. She took a step closer to the bar, but gasped when her foot didn't touch the floor. She took a pace backward. "We can use it as a spoke."

"A spoke?" Shaking his head, he reached to yank her out of the tunnel. "That might be a trap." The wall was broken at an odd angle, though, and the edge of the wall dug into his shoulder. She was only a few feet in front of him, but with his bulk and the wall, he wouldn't be joining her any time soon. "Lady, I ain't here to play hide and seek," he growled.

"And neither am I," she said. He couldn't help but to think that if she weren't immersed in water, she'd have stamped her little feet. He tried to snatch her again. His fingers splashed through the water, and he cursed. "There is something _here,_ Mister Redfox," she insisted, like a child trying to woo her parents into buying her candy at the market.

"The water's only getting deeper, shortstack. You don't know if the floor falls out, or if there's a pressure plate you're 'bout to step on. Think I want the ceiling to come down again?" She didn't answer him; she just edged further away from him. "Oi! I'm talking to you, lady!" Again, she took another step. "Librarian! Researcher—whatever the hell you are!"

Miss McGarden, gripping the ceiling, inched forward to the bar. The current was stronger the further she went. She peeped over her shoulder to find that all of Mister Redfox's splashes started to froth beneath the wall. The ripples dribbled against her chin. Her nose brushed against the ceiling, and the small space she had to breathe was becoming more narrow with every step. Sucking in a shaky breath, she continued.

"Listen!" he roared at the ceiling, still trying to shove his shoulder and arm through the wall. "Dammit, lady! This ain't some makeshift stream; it was built on purpose! Water filled here from the higher levels of the bathhouse and from your aqueduct. Feel the floor? That's tile; that ain't broken pillars or rock or stone. That's tile. The rubble in the middle of the trench? That used to be a bridge. A bridge so that people could walk from either side of the bathhouse."

She ignored him. He ducked his head again. She was at the bar now, just the top of her head spared from the water. Her palms were flat against the ceiling, and she was slowly sliding one hand to the bar. He growled and pounded his fists against the wall, trying to break more of it so that he could fit in the tunnel. The damned girl didn't know what she was doing. She couldn't take the bar _and_ remain standing in the water. Not with how the tunnel narrowed, focusing the rushing water into a bottleneck. And damned especially not with her pathetic height. His gloves split and his knuckles bled. The wall would not break.

"I can't—" He heard her start. Taking another look, he saw that she'd gripped the bar with one hand, the other clutching the ceiling. "It won't budge!"

"Librarian," he barked, "you get over here! Right now!" Grimacing at the water, for the stupid little fool wouldn't listen to him, he curled his lip and glanced to either side of him. Dragging in a breath and snarling it out, he tossed his vest onto the bank, pulled in a deep breath, and ducked his head under the water.

"Almost," she said between her clenched teeth. Using both hands, she both braced herself with the bar and tugged on it. "It's moving, slowly." The ends grated against the tunnel walls. It moved smoothly for a few moments before abruptly stopping. Frowning, she bit her lip and yanked as hard as she could. The bar gave way, and she cried out in victory. It took every muscle to refuse the current, and slowly, she backed her way out of the tunnel. Occasionally, her nose bumped against the ceiling.

And then water flooded her mouth, her feet slipped from the tiled floor, and she fell backward. She screamed, spewing out bubbles. One hand gripped the bar, while the other tore and grappled at the wall. With her no longer standing, the current was relentless, and she was surging along the tunnel floor.

She was being pulled—backward, forward, she didn't know; she only knew pressure on her entire body. Her chest burned, and she was reminded of a different time when air escaped her, when her lungs throbbed and her diaphragm thrummed against her ribcage. She was breaking, ripping apart, being torn by the seams, having her lungs and trachea and larynx and bronchi swim up her throat. She was ripped into burning air, into air that filled her lungs, into air that made her free hand scratch her throat. Shrieking, she gulped and gripped at the weight crushing her chest.

Blinking back the water, she saw she was in the bathhouses proper, not in that cramped tunnel. Spitting, she sighed in relief and leaned back against the weight supporting her. Despite her pulse hammering in her skull, she heard another set of ragged breaths accompanying hers. She peered upward, watching as Mister Redfox gulped and swallowed air as if he hadn't breathed in long minutes. He pushed her away to clomp through the stream. His gait was choppy, and he gripped the bank with shaking hands.

He bent his torso forward and wheezed. A cough rattled his chest and throat from his labored breath. Mister Redfox clawed at the hair stuck to his face and turned a piercing eye on her. Then, he jumped as if he touched the filaments inside of a lit lightbulb, and scrambled out of the water.

Clutching the bar in both hands, she gulped and watched him pace to and fro on the bank. He glared at the water as if hands would shoot from the stream and pull him under. She knew that energy, that nervous walk, the darting eyes. She had been the same when she was a child, before her brother had taken her to a lake in Fiore one bright, happy summer day.

"You don't know to swim," she said around her gasps, more to herself than to him. "Why?"

He paused in his furious pacing. She knew the halt in his frantic motions was forced—could tell by the way his body trembled and he stared at his boots.

She tilted her head at his form. His khakis were drenched and clung to his legs, and pressed against the fabric covering his thigh was the outline of Karma's most precious metal. She smiled. Quickly, before he'd notice her discovery, she hurried back onto the bank and held the bar out for him, staring at her own feet. She'd sliced them again, probably from her fall. He took the bar wordlessly and stared at the metal.

Miss McGarden angled her head, a frown etching into her brow as another realization crossed her mind, and slowly raised her gaze. "I almost drowned because of you," she said, finally.

"I saved your ass," he bit out, quickly. "Woulda drowned if I didn't haul you out from there."

"No," she countered. He turned to move toward the valve. Her hand shot out before she could stop herself, and she clutched the bar beneath his hand. "No, you didn't. I pulled the bar out, and then I started back. You, Mister Redfox, almost killed me." She sucked in a breath. He ripped the spoke out of her grip and swept forward, his back hunching at a dangerous angle. She scrambled backward, her eyes wide, and reached for her revolver. He stopped her with his hand holding hers prisoner.

"No," he growled. His voice had taken on the undertones only Jose's pet could pronounce. "You didn't listen to a goddamn word I said, you pain in my ass. You think this is a jungle gym for you? That this is some kind of adventure to write home about? It ain't your place to make decisions that can jeopardize our lives in this place, _librarian."_

Fire burned in her irises. "And you don't get to try to be the hero when you can't even swim, Mister Redfox," she spat right back at him. That was what she was good at, the Viathan wench.

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, lady. You're testin' me."

"Oh, good," she breathed, and if he didn't know venom before, he certainly heard it in her voice. "Why don't you make your master proud then? _I'm testing you._ Don't make me laugh, Mister Redfox. You put yourself in this position the moment you decided to break into my apartment, _kidnap_ me, throw me into your master's control, and—" He whirled away from her and started for the valve. Gaping, she blinked at his back, and then marched after him with anger burning her throat. "Is all of this a test for you, Mister Redfox?"

Those shadows crossed his face, and his lips were pressed together in a pale line. Not sparing her even a glance, he wedged the bar into one of the holes on the valve, swiveling it until both ends stuck out from the mechanism. The rusted metal screeched.

"A test to see if you can fool your master into believing you're actually loyal to him, when you have your own designs in mind?" she tried. The muscles in his arms flexed. " _Not going back to the conference rooms._ Oh, oh, I suppose you wouldn't want to trot back to your master now that he's lost your leash. No, now's your time to escape, for whatever purpose you have in mind."

His voice was criminal as he growled, "I'd stop if I were you."

"And I guess," she continued, raising a hand in the air, "that I'll be forced to accompany you. For whatever reason, Mister Redfox, I am alive. I remain alive. And yet you are so…" She gestured at his figure and tossed her arms in the air. "You are a brute if I do anything without your permission. So I have to ask—" Her voice rose an octave. "I have to ask why you wouldn't want me to drown."

"You're really trying me," came his answer. She stood her ground. He gripped the bar with his bleeding hands. "You're valuable. You know about Karma."

"So do you, Mister Redfox." He'd never seen a woman's fury so bottled up, so contained and pooling in her eyes. He could match that.

Then, she breathed, and some of that fury eased off her shoulders. "What are you looking for in Karma?" she asked. "And don't say treasure."

He clicked his mouth shut.

The chit's eyes held him pinned to the spot. He studied her, her small, drenched form. Her button-up was soaked transparent, and he guessed goosebumps dotted her forearms. A red stain spread over the front of her khakis. He knew what that was. He exhaled heavily and shifted his weight. "All I'm gonna tell you," he began, "is that I need your smarts. For now."

The threat was clear as the difference between night and day—had she been outdoors and not underground. "And when you don't need my smarts?"

"You'll find out." He nodded at the valve. "You just gonna stand there, or you gonna help me?"

Knowing that was all she'd receive from the man— _for now—_ she frowned at his suggestion. "What makes you think I'll be of help? Have you seen how skinny I am?"

"I can see a good deal," he said, smirking at the horrified red creeping into her cheeks. He eyed her button-up, and he'd be damned, but she didn't even cross her arms—just glared bloody murder at him. "Not like you got anything worth hiding, sweetheart." Scowling at him, she quickly joined him at the valve and grabbed the end of the spoke opposite him. "Besides, something tells me that you're a little hurricane when you want something."

"Then you'd best hope I never want your commentary to permanently be muted," she grumbled. "Turn it clockwise. If it still works, it should shut off the water channeling here." He grunted in understanding. Not a moment later, the two of them were grunting and hissing while trying to crank the valve. Their pushing yielded nothing, not even an inch of movement. He let go of the bar, and she followed suit. "It takes four men," she panted.

"I am four men," he huffed. He gripped the bar, and not having any other choice, she did, too. That did not produce any results, either. Swearing and shaking out his hands, he moved around the bar to pull, rather than push. "Again."

Her feet scrabbled against the floor. Her sole sliced open, and she gasped. He frowned at the red streaks her small feet left in the sand. Doubling his efforts, he sucked in his lip, leaned his body backward, and _pulled._ The veins in his arms strained against his skin, and his muscles bulged from his efforts. Sweat slid down his neck. His head throbbed, and he did his best to force the unpleasant feeling away from his senses. _"Fi'nn."_

Roaring, he forced all his weight to oppose the bar. She jumped at the sound, and then she gaped: the valve moved against the rusted ridges and grooves in its base. "Push," he grunted.

She squeaked and did her best. Miss McGarden chanced looking at him. She was mesmerized, seeing the muscles in his neck stretched taut, the lines of his face pulled back in a concentrated snarl, and his hands—

His knuckles were bleeding. She wanted to tell him to stop, that they'd find a different way out of the bathhouses, but the valve moved another inch. And another, and another, and then it turned in a steady circle. The rusted grooves screeched a terrible piercing sound that stabbed their ears and his noggin. Oh, steel and Mavis, that sound was awful.

The valve locked into place abruptly, jostling them. Miss McGarden draped her arms over the bar and panted. Mister Redfox slid to his bottom, gulping down air with his eyes closed. "Did that do it?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said.

"Huh."

They waited, the two of them collecting their breaths and watching the flow of water. Several minutes passed, and the stream remained the same consistency. Miss McGarden cleared her throat. "We might have flooded other parts of the ruin," she whispered.

"Or it didn't do anything," he offered. His brain was buzzing, and not from any epiphany. No, he felt his consciousness begin to dot over, like an artist was stippling the canvas behind his eyelids. Grimacing, he turned his head to the side and murmured, "How's it lookin' now?"

"It's—" She gasped, and her chains rattled. "It's going down. Not a lot, but maybe enough. Are… are we going through the tunnel?"

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Looks like it."

"Mister Redfox?" She ducked beneath the bars and hobbled over to him. Her legs still shook from pushing with all her worth. "Mister Redfox, please don't fall asleep."

He snorted. "Ain't gonna sleep. Just gonna close my eyes for a bit." Hands gripped either side of his face and turned his head. He peeled open an eye to find that worried line creasing her brow. "Why you care?" he mumbled.

"You might not wake up if you sleep," she said. She brushed away the sand stuck to his cheek.

"Wouldn't you like that," he drawled. If her hands weren't supporting his head, it would have lolled to the side again. Why, why did his head feel so heavy, and why did his neck feel so weak? She tugged on his arm, looping it over her shoulders, and reached for his waist. "You're a stubborn little thing, aren't ya," he mused, vaguely aware of the pink tint flooding her cheeks.

"I'm probably the most stubborn woman you'll ever meet, Mister Redfox," she said. She tugged him onto his knees. Her feet were planted firmly in the sand so that she could support him, and then she pulled him so that he was standing.

"Not very good for a woman," he said. "All that backtalk." They collected his vest, a surprise on his part since she handed it over to him, revolver included, without a word. Then they hobbled through the stream. The water, while still running, was lower, now, just reaching their shins. The valve hadn't rerouted the current completely, but they were fortunate it even functioned. "What, nothing to say?" he mumbled. Not taking his bait, she instead leaned him against a pillar and tied his duffel straps together. He narrowed his eyes. She knew her knots, that one.

"Can you carry it?" she asked. He hummed in reply and then slid the duffel over his shoulder. He hissed when the heavy bulk rubbed against his back. With his free hand, he held the torch. It still had bits of snake viscera on it. He curled his lip. Once she supported him again, he leaned more of his weight into her. She stumbled, and with a determined set to her brow, led him to the broken gap in the wall.

"Watch your head," she said. With his weight hunching her shoulders, she fit through the gap without a problem. He, on the other hand, had to duck and curl into himself. "Don't let the torch get wet."

"I know," he grumbled. The tunnel was too cramped for them to light the torch, and the light from the bathhouses was swallowed by darkness now. The water licked at their legs. Their breaths were heavy not only from their exhaustion, but from the eerie feel of the tunnel. The walls were narrowing, gradually, and the floor was angling downward. They relied on touch to navigate the passage. Her hand ran along the tunnel wall, and every step, her arm would extend in front of her as the walls tapered. Long moments past, and Mister Redfox's gravelly voice startled her. "Leads to the Gulf, right?"

"It should lead to the Gulf," she agreed. And then, in a quieter, uncertain voice, said, "Maybe there are other aqueducts also connected to this tunnel. If that's the case, maybe there are other rooms, other chambers that connect here? I…" Her voice lowered, and he had to strain his ears to hear her. That wasn't a good idea for his brain. What she had to say didn't help in the least, either. "I don't know."

The water reached her knees. Her hand was in front of her, now. "It's narrow, here. We'll have to go one at a time." His head rolled onto her shoulder, and his breathing was ragged. "Just hold onto my arm, okay? Mister Redfox." She felt him nod against her. She ducked beneath his arm and fumbled to find his hand in the darkness. Her pulse skittered. Something clamped down on her fingers, and then she guided his hand to her arm. Carefully, she bent her body in front of his and palmed the walls.

"You're going to have to walk sideways," she whispered. His sigh was deep, rumbling up from his belly and jolting through her.

"Take the duffel," he grunted, and then its weight was thrusted into her hands.

She bit her lip, wincing as she knew he'd have to bend his back even more. "Are you okay?"

"No," he groaned, and gradually scaled his way through the passage. 'Narrow' was too kind a word; he felt like a sardine squished into a dented can. He tapped her arm once he was through, and she squeezed his hand.

"It's okay," she said. Her voice shook. "I can hold your pack." He imagined her in the dark, spine straight and head lifted not in her common stubborn bouts, but rather in determination.

He did not argue.

Sighing again, he toed forward, his hand still around her arm, and followed her. His mind was starting to disconnect from his body, like someone was snipping away the strings of his conscience. He swayed, and she tripped. He squeezed her arm hard enough to leave bruises and clutched the wall, keeping her from falling on her face. Grumbling, he pulled her back onto her feet and grabbed the back of her button-up, between her shoulder blades.

"Mister Redfox," she started. He began walking forward, but she had yet to move. "Mister Redfox—!"

This time, he couldn't correct her fall. He stumbled into her back, upsetting her balance, and they slid through the tunnel. She tried catching herself by planting her feet on either wall, but that was nigh impossible with his heavy weight and the duffel both barreling into her. Her scream and his shout echoed off the walls and stabbed his brain. The floor was steep—angling steeper and steeper and the tunnel was widening, and then she was tumbling and rolling in limbo, Mister Redfox's limbs flailing and smacking into her as he couldn't stop his fall, either, the water choking her and then clearing, and then swimming back into her nostrils and throat and lungs and it _burned—_

She landed in a puddle, and something much too heavy landed on her. She cried out, and then his groans filled her ears. Gulping back her sobs, she turned her head side to side, trying to make sense of this darkness. "Mister Redfox," she panted, and his only reply was a hissed intake of breath. She pushed herself onto her elbows and willed herself to picture where she was in the darkness.

She'd fallen in water, that much was obvious. The pool she was in was shallow, and water dripped off her chin. The sound of water was behind her, most likely pouring in from the tunnel. The sound was also hollow, like the chamber was spacious enough to bounce the sound to and fro. Maybe tall ceilings, maybe a wide room. She blinked, hoping that she'd be able to concentrate more, and wishfully thought that she'd be able to see.

And then she sucked in a breath. She, indeed, could see. It was peculiar, what she saw, and at first she told herself it was her mind playing tricks on her. With darkness came curiosities, after all. But her Viathan curiosity was strong, and she was adamant that it would not lead her stray. No, what she was witnessing was no mind trick or gimmick. Mazes of a faint, shimmering light zigged and zagged along the floor. Water reflected the dull grey light, forming wobbling circles and ovals on the far walls and ceiling. These lines, whatever they were, speckled and shimmered in the darkness. The closest thing they resembled, her dumbfounded mind could compare, was sunlight winking off silver jewelry.

"Mister Redfox," she breathed. He groaned. She reached a hand out to shake his shoulder while gaping at the shining floor. "Mister Redfox, can you see this?"

He rolled onto his back and gulped down air. "See what," he mumbled. Her silence answered him, and then he peeled his eyes open. He only saw the floating purple hues of darkness, and he opened his mouth to answer her—

He snapped his mouth shut. If he wasn't underground, he'd have thought he was staring up at the stars. The glowing veins stretched over the ceiling, twisting over stalactites, and all he could do was watch as light flickered along the smooth patterns. His voice was pitched in— _awe, wonder, apprehension?_ The tone was unfamiliar to her. "What is that?" From the corner of his eye, he saw a vein spark beneath his head, and the soothing warmth that enveloped his skull and brain made his breath hitch.

Gone. The pain was gone.

She slowly shook her head. "I don't know." Beneath the water they were lying in, some of the veins shimmered. Her curiosity fueled her. She traced the veins with her fingertips and frowned in bewilderment. Beside her, Mister Redfox watched as the speckled line flickered brightly for a moment, and then it faded to shine somewhere else in the room. Subconsciously, he felt beneath the damp bandages on his forehead.

"It could be phosphorescence," she thought aloud.

Her voice pulled him back to reality. "No," he said. He knocked his knuckles against the floor. "Hear that? That ain't rock. That's metal."

Slowly, she turned her head toward him. Their eyes met, and their uncertainty was palpable between them. " _What?"_ she breathed. "What kind of metal?"

He shook his head. There was no pain: no rattling of his skull, no sloshing of his brain. "I have no idea." Whereas he pierced their surroundings with a critical eye, she gaped in wonder. Her curiosity fueled, she couldn't help the questions bombarding her mind, and she could not help but to further become enchanted by the Ferrians.

"I don't like this," he said at last. He pushed himself to his feet, splashing through the water, and slowly turned in a full circle. "They're everywhere. See how they're pulsing in the same direction? Like they're all connected by a central hub. Like spokes."

"Is that bad?" she asked.

"How should I know?"

She slowly righted herself and jumped when a vein shimmered beneath her foot. "Do you think…" She hugged herself. "It's silly, I know, and you probably already know this story." He hauled the duffel and began trudging along the wide channel of water they landed in, careful not to step on any of the light. She trailed behind several paces. "It's really just a children's tale, something make-believe. Like time travel, or mind control, things like that." She peeked up at the ceiling when a vein flashed. "But it's been said that there's a token, or… or a book, or a globe, even a crystal ball, hidden in Ferroc's ancient kingdom."

She didn't notice that his back had gone completely rigid; she was too busy watching the lights wink throughout the room. "Whoever holds the ball—or reads the book, I guess—can control the elements. Can you imagine someone controlling fire, or air, or even the earth itself? It's ridiculous, I know, but from what I've researched, this object caused many wars between Ferroc and neighboring kingdoms. It could be all symbolic, too. Or, since science was more defined by religious beliefs forty-thousand years ago, there could be a very sound scientific explanation for the object."

She risked peeking at him, and frowned. He was marching through the lines now. Miss McGarden hurried after him. "Black Steel also went to war over this object. He didn't know it was hidden in Viath, and after he conquered, he didn't know that technically he possessed the object. So many tribes from what's now Bellum, Mins, and Joya—even as far north as Isenberg—tried to conquer Ferroc. Black Steel's reign was a bloody one."

"Is there a point to your chatter?" he barked.

Huffing, she jogged to his side and said, "I'm just saying that while I know it's completely illogical, unscientific, and quite pagan if I do say so myself, these lines could be reacting to that object. Maybe it's somewhere in Karma?"

"You'll say anything, won't you," he growled.

"I didn't say I believe it! I was just… I don't know, brainstorming? Trying to think of a possibility?" She paused, watching how the light bounced off his piercings and highlighted those awful lines creased across his nose. "Mister Redfox," she said, with an all-too knowing tone.

He ignored her.

"Is that what you're looking for in Karma?"

"Tch." He quickened his strides. "You think I'm that dumb to believe in magic?"

"I never said it was magic," she quietly mused. "You know, Mister Redfox, Black Steel ordered his best architects to create a vault." His every reaction was scrutinized by her; nothing went unseen. His eyes flared, and his knuckles cracked at his side. "No one knows what the vault was for, but he himself forged the two keys designed to open it. One key, he kept for himself. The other, bigger key, he gave to—"

He stormed her. His hands shot out to grab her arms, and with anger pumping his muscles, he pinned her down in the channel. He saw the light flash in her eyes, highlighting her fear. She should have known better than to speak of such things. If she needed a lesson taught, he was more than willing to instruct her.

The water wasn't deep by any means, and it steadily swept past her shaking body. He looked ready to pummel her, should she continue with her lecture. Instead, she chose to watch as fear gripped his very being. She traced the indent on his thigh, and he jerked away from her touch as if he'd been burned. His hands loosened on her arms.

"Why do you have one of the keys wrapped around your leg, Mister Redfox?" she asked with a quirked brow. There was an abundance of curiosity in her voice, and coupled with her venom, he was left speechless.

He opened and closed his mouth as if he were a fish out of water. She tapped the oval key beneath his khakis, impatiently waiting for his reply. He pressed his lips together, and she grinned in satisfaction. Her eyes were big and shining, and happy creases formed in the corners of them. Shifting his weight and drawing his leg away from her nagging finger, his knee pressed down on a curved panel.

Speechless indeed, he was, but he would find in a matter of seconds that speech would not be necessary. Not when he'd just pushed in a pressure plate, and the consequential _click!_ echoed off the walls.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello, everyone! New chapter is up, and I have my CFA Exam coming up in just under 2 weeks, followed by finals a week later, so I won't be able to work on the next chapter until mid December. Sorry, but I'm a busy college student!**

 **I'm drawing more inspiration from Prince of Persia and Assassin's Creed (I adore both franchises), but still trying to keep The Mummy and Indi feel alive in this, while also putting in my own feel. Eh, I dunno, I'm just trying to tell a story here XD**

 **As always, thank you to every reader, every follower and everyone who has favorite. Silent reader or a reviewer, your attention is greatly appreciated, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)**

 **And now, time to answer some reviews~**

 **JadeOccelot: Hi, there! :) Heehee, it'll take a lot for them to work as a team, and even more to see eye to eye. We shall see! Thanks for reading!**

 **Painting Dandelions: Oh my goodness, thank you! I've never heard of Cussler; what's he usually write about? And gosh, thank you so much! Writing a novel is really what I want to do after I get a better handle on my financial situation (student loans suck), and it's very encouraging to know that people like my writing for a fanfiction. Again, thank you so much. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Take care! :)**

 **MundaneAshuri: mmmm Levy dom... ;)**

 **OziGirl16: Yeahh, it's pretty gross, but Gajeel isn't afraid of a little pee. No sir, he isn't. And hey, thanks for reading! :)**

 **Mewhee89: I'm not sure if I would call it a forbidden romance. I can see how it can be discouraged, since Gajeel's working with Jose, and Levy's the captive, but hmm... I'm not sure if Gajeel's quite set on being Jose's pawn... ;) And no, she didn't take his necklace. She knows it's there, though, but taking the necklace would require her to stick her hands down his pants XD she didn't do that.**

 **Weezer: Thank you! I'm glad you enjoy and appreciate the build to this story. And I'm glad people are noticing he's acknowledging her personality more so than her appearance (even though he's rude about her appearance at times). I like to think that Gajeel notices people's actions more than their looks, and the same would apply to a potential partner in life. Levy's actions and heart have so much more meaning than her looks. At least, that's my take on everything. And I'm really tired of reading fanfictions that go on and on about how beautiful Levy is, and how pretty her hair is, and how smooth her skin looks. It gets old after a while, and I think that has become the standard and verbatim for Gajevy fanfictions. Which annoys me, because that means authors aren't thinking for themselves. Whoever set the first standard, so many people decide to jump on that bandwagon and use the same phrases, the same words, to describe Gajeel and Levy. Ehh, sorry for this rant, you just brought up a very interesting point. Thank you for reading! :)**

 **lilphoenixfeather: He isn't sweet on her (yet! yet! yet!), but he definitely has standards. And while Gajeel hits Levy when Jose orders him to, Bose likes to do it for fun. And that isn't cool with Gajeel. And haaaah! Karma is a very touchy subject for him. Heehee, thanks for staying for the ride! :)**

 **JustAGajevyFan: Oh, thank you! :D and aaaahhhh "From Costa Rica to you, a review" is so cute! I love it!**

 **Guest: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter too :)**

 **MoonbeamMadness: Oh. Oh my. Thank you so much! I'm so glad that you're enjoying it this much; that means the world to me! And yes, I agree there is some predictability. I'm trying to work on that, trying to keep things interesting, if not fresh. To me, I see it as if there is predictability in the plot, let the characters' reactions be believable and well done. And, unfortunately, there is A LOT of predictability in The Mummy and Indiana Jones, two franchises that this story is heavily influenced by. So, there's that. Ehhh, must work harder. Hope you enjoyed this chapter just as much as the others! :) Thanks for reading!**

 **Usweasil: Hey, it's my pleasure! Thanks for reading :)**

 **levyredfoxx3: Thank you! And nope, I'm still around, just very busy with schoolwork. I'm gonna stay with this story until the end, so if it takes me a month to update, that means I'm just very busy. But I have a lot of ideas for this story, and I don't want to let these ideas go, so rest assured, there will be an update :)**

 **ladybeth4: Yeah, everybody likes Lily :) I'm glad you caught that; I wasn't sure if people knew I was referencing Lily. Thanks for reading! :)**


	9. To Desert

The sound echoed off the walls like a gunshot, and the whites of their eyes flashed as if either of them had pulled the trigger. They dragged in a collected breath before the shining veins were extinguished like a blown-out candle; there was no flash, there was no gradual dim—just darkness.

And then the veins hummed back to life, seeping light back into the chamber. Mister Redfox, already on his feet, yanked on Miss McGarden's arm. The floor shook, startling the water into nervous ripples and shaking dust from the ceiling. She stumbled, and had it not been for his rough fingers digging into her back, she'd have collapsed. His grip on her arm tightened, and the hand squashed between her shoulder blades was merciless; he was the only thing keeping her upright. Still, she didn't particularly enjoy having her nose crushed against his chest.

He gritted his teeth and swiveled his head to and fro. The librarian's shaking hands clutched his button-down, and with a voice pitched an octave higher than usual, she spoke his thoughts. "What was that?"

He shook his head; he had no answer. Mister Redfox snarled and spread his legs to balance himself against the shaking earth. Her chains rattled. The maze-like lines carved throughout the chamber were as bright as lit flash lamps. If Mister Redfox had a Kodak, he'd have taken a picture of what he was witnessing, too. He screwed his eyes closed. When he felt her measly weight push against his chest, no doubt trying to escape these hellish lights, he cupped the back of her head.

The veins hummed a peculiar sound, a faint whirring noise that bounced around in his mind. It was like his ears were ringing; he could easily convince himself that the noise was all his imagination.

And then the veins dimmed to a muted glow, as they previously were. The floor ceased to rumble, and the water smoothed into a steady stream once more. He snapped his eyes open and scanned the room. Like the Viathan turtle she was, the librarian peered up at him before following suit. The chamber was quiet, save for the running water and their nervous breaths. Carefully, he straightened his posture. He didn't ridicule her when he felt her small feet scramble atop his boots.

"What the hell kind of trap was that," he rumbled.

"Maybe—" She was about to voice her optimism just as the lines began to pulse. At first, the light hummed outward at a sluggish rhythm, not having a central hub to guide it. But then the light began shooting through the carvings into the ceiling, all in the same direction and at the same pace.

"It's getting faster," she said. He had a snarky comment at the back of his throat for her obvious observation, but that would have to wait. Above them, dust fell from the ceiling. Mister Redfox and the librarian held their breaths, their spooked eyes following the maze above them. There was a bang, somewhere in the ceiling, followed by a grating sound. And then another bang, louder this time, and more grating.

"Is that…" She frowned, unaware that her knuckles were white against his collar. "That sounds like something's rolling."

"A very big something," he whispered. With their eyes trained on the ceiling, trying to follow the thumps and bangs, they did not see steam begin dancing along the rippling water at their feet. The rolling was replaced with rhythmic clicks, like a gear was slowly being turned. One click, two, three, four—

The object fell, taking chunks of the ceiling with it. It was a boulder, they realized, crafted from the same material as the chamber. The boulder crashed into the water at the far side of the chamber, nearly reaching the ceiling, and seamlessly met the width of the channel. Strange, as that meant the lips of the trough were grooves specifically designed for the boulder.

Oh, by ancient steel…

They watched as the light changed course, this time pulsing toward the boulder. Light spilled and traveled along the patterns etched into the boulder until it pulsed brightly. It was as if the Sun had descended in this chamber.

And then the boulder started to roll.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," he spat. He pushed the librarian toward the edge of the channel. The channel was wide, yes, and the boulder took up its entirety, but there was still plenty of the chamber left on either side of the trough for them to avoid the boulder.

The cry that shrieked itself from the librarian had him yank her by the arm. She screamed again, and he shoved her again. "What are you doing!" he barked. "Run, dammit—!"

He sucked in a breath. The bottoms of her feet had red lines burned into them, and the water was boiling and spitting bubbles. Swearing, he hoisted her over his shoulder and charged down the channel. The smell of burnt leather reached his nose, and with a snarl, he pushed himself faster.

Miss McGarden forced the tears to stay behind her eyes. Her sight was blurry and the steam was thick, but what she could see made her shout. The boulder was gaining speed, as the chamber had a gradual slope to it, and it was swallowing the light, sucking it from the room. In its wake, the boulder left darkness, and the light in front of it surged toward it. The light was dimming, and soon she and Mister Redfox would be forced into darkness. "Mister Redfox!"

"I know!" he shouted. He pelted through the water. The chamber was narrowing, and the heat from the veins along the walls was starting to center into a bottleneck. Why, why hadn't he noticed the heat before! It was near impossible to see through the steam, like trying to navigate through fog with an electric torch.

"Mister Redfox!" she screamed. The boulder was a handful of meters away from them, and it was bright and burning and relentlessly gaining speed. She buried her face in his button-down and swore in a language familiar to the both of them.

He passed through an upside-down V with arches on either side of the channel. He heard the boulder hit the arch. "Did it stop?" he asked, breathless.

"Y-yes," she croaked. A giddy laugh slipped from her lips. She felt the relieved sigh wash through his shoulders. He slowed into a jog. "Yes, it stopped—" She gawked. The light from the boulder spilled along the arches. No, no, no _no no no,_ that was not how metal behaved. She was no expert in metalworks, but metal did _not_ peel back like curtains and then reform itself. She batted her hands against his shoulders and screamed. He bolted into a sprint.

"It—it—" She shook her head, and if she wasn't holding onto Mister Redfox for dear life, she'd have smacked her cheeks. No, this was not scientific at all. If the boulder was hot enough, surely it would have melted the arches, but that would have taken time—but then how come the floor did not melt, as well? How would the arches have been pushed back like wobbly gelatin, and then reshaped into the archway as soon as the boulder passed through?

"Did you _see_ that?" she gasped.

"Can't really look," he stuttered. The air was bogged with steam, and his lungs throbbed; he needed more air, not steam. "Is it getting closer?" A stupid question, but he needed to know.

"Yes," she said. "And faster—Mister Redfox?" His movements became choppy. He was losing momentum. His chin fell to his collarbone. "Mister Redfox!"

His gait jittered into an uneven jog. He panted, trying to gulp down air. All he could breathe was the humidity, the steam, the water. A cough rattled through his throat. Swearing, he kicked himself back into a run that was short-lived before, again, he fell into a jog.

A voice that was supposed to be soft and tender tickled through his mind, finding the creases and folds of his brain—but the voice was not soft nor tender; it was alarmed, sharp, feminine, and bit into him like icicles. Only one word was spoken, a name unfamiliar to him yet _so_ familiar, as if he only needed a few moments to put a face to the name. It was electrical. Without warning, he'd snapped his head up, tightened his grip on the librarian— _she was shouting his name—_ and burst forward with speed.

He was pulled by the alarm in _her_ voice, whoever _she_ was, whoever was calling out in his mind. If he explained to physicians the source of his energy, why he ran and ran and ran and roared with rage, he'd have been diagnosed a madman and sent to asylum.

The walls tapered into a hallway, and the ceiling became vaulted. He splashed through the boiling water with every lunge. It should have burned him; any droplet that met the librarian's skin had her hissing or crying out. The soles of his boots must have been burned through, for he could feel the water between his toes. He heard the boulder rolling through the channel. Roaring, he abandoned his thoughts and let adrenaline lead him further down the tunnel. _Her_ voice urged him forward.

The channel fell at a sharp angle. He knew there was no chance of stopping, and so he moved with the water: faster. It was dangerous, and more than once he either almost cartwheeled or lost his hold on the librarian. The lights were dimming, being pulled in by the boulder, and they flashed in warning. He lost his breath when the channel pitched again into a steep drop.

There, a handful of meters ahead, was where the hallway ended. The water frothed and rushed through a hole in the wall. That was their way to freedom, the way to the Gulf. _Outside._ However, the closer he charged toward the wall, he realized that he would not be able to fit through the hole. Nor would the librarian, by the looks of it. He turned his head to look over his shoulder. His nose bumped against the librarian's backside, and he scrunched his face before turning his head the other way. The boulder was fast and solid. Hopefully, he prayed, the metal from which it was constructed would survive a heavy collision.

That left one last problem: he did not know where to find cover. The veins outside of the channel were still alive and burning. If he stayed in the channel, though, he'd be rammed by the boulder. Burned or squashed, he didn't plan on kicking the bucket either way.

Bracing himself with a quick breath, he leapt over the lip of the channel. "What are you doing!" the librarian gasped. "You'll burn yourself—you can't!"

She heard his boots sizzling. He had holes in the soles, and she knew that soon, the smell of burnt flesh would join the steam. "Mister Redfox, what—"

Miss McGarden was tossed from his shoulder so that he had both arms wrapped around her waist. He skidded to a halt, and his shoulder banged against the wall. His cry was swallowed by a curse, and he wedged himself into a corner as far away from where the boulder would impact the wall. The furthest distance he could manage was barely a foot, but it would have to do. Instinctively, Miss McGarden raised a hand to brace herself when he adjusted his hold around her waist. Her palm smacked against the wall, and the light seared brightly against her skin.

She screamed and tried to throw herself out of his grip, away from the burning lines, but he held tight. "I got you," he croaked, and barred her against his chest while he leaned his back against those burning lines.

"Mister Redfox," she gasped, "your back!"

"I'm fine!" he barked. She bore witness as the veins pulsed to his person. The light came close to his flesh, brightened, and then skittered elsewhere. Her jaw hung loosely at the sight.

It would only be seconds before the boulder would crash into the wall. He squashed her into himself and tucked his head down against hers. His eyes screwed shut, and he held his breath.

The impact was as powerful as Totomaru's detonations, if not more. The vibrations shook his bones and rattled his teeth. His footing crumbled with the floor, and the wall behind him gave way. Water splashed, the metal groaned, and his world was tipping backward. He didn't know when he'd opened his eyes again, but for a moment he was shrouded in darkness. The veins of light had vanished as the boulder broke through the wall and the ceiling collapsed.

Mister Redfox fell, his voice a shout pitched with fright. Miss McGarden felt her body slipping away. She clung to his vest and collar.

And then light—burning, bright and _natural_ light—exploded across their eyes, making them water. The sound of rushing waterfalls, the spray of water, and the _oof!_ Mister Redfox grunted as his back collided with dust and rock. He blinked, watching as parts of the chamber crashed around him, as the boulder fell like a black dollop into the Gulf. Water erupted from where they'd been trapped, seamlessly forming another waterfall.

He and the librarian hadn't fallen terribly far, but the freefall had been timeless. Waterfalls hid the ruined room they escaped. Even if he squinted and tilted his head, he could not see any sign of the dark metal from which the room was constructed. He supposed it was for the best. He and the librarian had survived Karma, and here they were: outside—

Outside. They were outside, somewhere on a rocky ledge in the Kanash Gulf. There were clouds in the sky unable to stop the sun from pouring its light onto Desierto, and by Mavis, had the sky always been that blue? Mister Redfox's sigh started from his toes and rumbled through his shoulders. He closed his eyes, just breathing in the clean air, hot air, the air that was not moldy or smelling of burnt sand and dust. Something shook against his chest. He cocked a brow and peered down to find the librarian's shoulders quaking.

"Oi," he coughed. He shook her arm and was rewarded with a wide smile. Her grin crinkled her teary eyes and dimpled her cheeks. Her nose was runny. Grumbling, he rolled her onto her back and waited for her cackling to quiet. Still, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Slowly, he sat himself up to gather his surroundings. Around them, the wide ring of waterfalls emptied into the green waters of the Kanash Gulf that led to the Zamarr Ocean. The canyon they had landed in was ridged with sharp slabs of rock, and sparse vegetation grew from the outcroppings. The southern part of Desierto wasn't known for its plantlife; for green and blue, travelers needed to head northwest toward Viath.

He sat there for a moment, feeling the cool spray of the waterfalls and listening to the librarian giggle. His mind was quiet. Whoever's voice that had been tossing and turning between his ears was quiet, now. He tried to remember what the voice sounded like, yet whenever he'd try to remember, his eyes drifted toward the librarian.

If he kept this up, he'd just have another headache. He shook his head. His fingers wiggled into the sand and rock as he leaned back on his palms. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Her giggles tapered off, and he frowned. Peeling one eye open, he studied her as she lay on her back, tilting her head toward the sun and spreading her arms out. She hummed quietly and sifted her fingers through the sand.

She was a skinny thing. A sweaty, bruised, scabbed, and tired thing. His eyes trailed down to her khakis where a red puddle was soaking through to the sand. With a quick check to his own shoulder, he nodded in comprehension. He knew what that stain was.

Mister Redfox cleared his throat. He pushed against his lower back and breathed after feeling his vertebrae pop. He looked over his shoulder at the librarian when she gasped.

Her quiet peace was swept away, and she scrambled on her knees to swat his hands away. "Don't do that!" she said. "You were burned. Don't touch your back!" His vest was singed, and his button-down had holes burnt through them. She gaped, not believing what she saw. Pawing through the holes of his shirt, she blinked and shook her head.

"Is it that bad?" he asked. "Can't feel anything wrong. Maybe I burnt the nerves?"

"Mister Redfox," she started with a gulp. "Mister Redfox, you have no burns."

"What?" He raised his arms and felt along his back. Some spots were tender from bruises, but there wasn't the agonizing pain of prodding an angry burn. "What the hell do you mean there aren't any burns? Your feet and hand are fried, lady." She kept her weight in her knees so that her feet would not touch the dusty ground. Even with the sand stuck to her skin, he saw the lines burned into her feet. Her palm was red and angry, too.

"And your feet?" she asked. He propped his boot against his knee. There were holes in the leather. Frowning, he pulled his boot off. "How is that possible?" she breathed. In lieu of pacing, she nibbled on her nails. "Leather is skin; it burns easily. How come your boots are burnt, but your feet are fine? That doesn't make sense." She held either side of her face and pulled her hair. "Your feet should have welts and blisters on them."

He shoved his foot back into his ruined boot. "That doesn't sound too pleasant," he said.

She whirled on her knees, nearly losing her balance, and cried out, "I am serious, Mister Redfox! None of this is making sense. The metal, the lights, the—the boulder-light-thing that melted and then reformed the metal! How come I'm burned and you aren't and why did the light-lines shoot away from you, and _why—_ " She gasped, pulling in another breath, and pointed a finger at him. "How come the water didn't burn you? It was boiling, Mister Redfox. Were you burned by it?"

"You want me to take my khakis off?" he scoffed.

"No!" She huffed and, in lack of better judgment, tried to stand. She stumbled when the burned part of her foot made contact with the ground. He was on his feet faster than he thought capable with his aching legs. Had it not been for him yanking on her arm, she'd have fallen on her face. It was odd, this angle she was leaning toward, but by Fairies and Spriggans, she was not done with him. "Mister Redfox, I need answers!"

"And I got nothing for you, lady!" He turned her around and hoisted her into the air by her waist. Her feet were off the ground. "What, you think I know what happened back there? All I know was that we were being chased by a giant boulder, and I hauled your scrawny ass outta danger. Anything else, the lights, the metal, the burns, the—you said the lines moved away from me?"

"Yes!" she sighed. "They were going to burn you, and then they—they—they didn't, they—" Mister Redfox would have crossed his arms if he wasn't holding her up, and she no doubt would have been pacing and waving her arms. No, she _was_ waving her arms around, and she nearly swatted his cheek. She was breathless and blathering on about the lights jittering away from him, or something like that. Her excitement made her speech nigh incomprehensible. This would not do.

Sucking in a much-needed breath, she opened her mouth to continue her rambling. Instead, she squeaked as he threw her over his shoulder. "Mister Redfox!"

"Listen, lady," he growled, hoping that she'd conclude the sweat dripping down his neck was from the heat. He tossed her higher so that one arm was around her waist, the other around her thighs. "I don't think the first thing we want to do after cheating death is to think about _why_ we survived. So count your lucky stars, thank your gods, and for the sake of my sanity, _shut up."_

She piped down at that, but a determined frown still pulled her brows together. Huffing, she crossed her arms over his back and refused to look at any part of him.

"Good," he sighed after a moment of silence. "Now here's what we _are_ going to do. We're out of Karma, yeah, but we have no resources. Nothing. No food, no water. So we're going to go back to camp where we can get some, got it?"

She bobbed up and down on his shoulder as he began navigating through the slabs and narrow paths along the Gulf. "Oh," she said quietly, and he'd be damned: he heard her stutter. Her chains rattled. "I was wondering when you'd deliver me back to your master." She yelped when he jostled her. "Hey!"

"Did I say we were gonna do that?" She smacked his back, and he rolled his eyes. "We're gettin' supplies, chatterbox, and then we're leavin'."

"Leaving?" She blinked, not expecting this plan. By Mavis, she couldn't help the hopeful lilt to her voice. "You're taking me back to Oro?"

"No," he said. She waited for him to elaborate. He was silent.

"Then where are we going? To Viath?"

"No."

"Then where—" He jostled her again. She twisted her body to huff at him. "Mister Redfox!"

"You know," he said, "you talk too much."

"I-I do not! You just never answer my questions! Mister Redfox, where are we—"

"Careful," he said. "A bit narrow here. I'd lower your head, and your voice, if I were you." Pursing her lips, she heeded his advice as he carried her underneath a low outcropping. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of something shining from one of the jutting rocks. Realization touched her face, and she was quick to swipe the chunk of metal. Now that she had proper lighting, she could see that the metal was a dark grey, nearly charcoal in color. The lines etched in the metal were lifeless; there was no light. Storing the chunk inside of her button-down and making a mental reminder to study it further, she turned her eyes back to Mister Redfox.

"So we aren't going to Oro," she said.

"What did I just say about the talkin'?" he said. "You're right in my ear, too."

"I'm just thinking out loud," she sneered, loudly. He cringed and clicked his tongue. "So wherever we're going," she mused, "you aren't going to tell me." He grunted and shifted her on his shoulder to climb up a steep slope. They were heading behind the waterfalls, now. Years ago, the Kanash Gulf used to be a hotspot for tourists, and travel agencies made quite the pretty coin from visitors. It was a beautiful landmark, certainly, but it was also dangerous. Several tourists lost their lives while navigating the steep pathways and tricky rocks to reach the bottom of the waterfalls. Now, the Gulf was closed to tourism and free of snack boxes, cheesecloth, and paper wrappers.

"How far away is camp?" she asked. The slope was becoming steeper. Gravity pushed her body down and made her arms hang limply at his back.

"At the top." He grunted and shifted her weight. "At the top of the canyon, where we excavated the entrance to Karma."

"You mean the city was built _into_ the Gulf?" she blurted. "That's impossible. An entire city couldn't have been underground."

"Maybe not all of it," he said between his teeth. He rolled his shoulder. "Maybe some of it was buried under sand, dirt, and rock. Ain't you the expert?"

Her silence was a blessing.

The trek to the top of the canyon was long and taxing. He panted and groaned, for his muscles wanted to heave no more, and it was instinct for his arms to loosen. By all that was metal, how his body demanded for him to lighten his load! His arms shook. His legs buckled. Her fingers tightened in his shirt, and that was all he needed to force one leg in front of the other. With gnashed teeth and a deep line etched into his bandaged brow, he reached the top by the time the sky had crept into evening.

Gulping down air, he set her down against the canyon wall. They were hidden behind jutting rocks bordering the massive pool of water at the top of the waterfalls. The earth was cracked, dry, and a muted orange. He peered around the rocks. It was difficult to see with the setting sun, but in the distance, he could make out the dark shapes of pitched tents. Either Jose had not moved his men, or the campsite was deserted.

The librarian was inspecting her feet, and judging by the way she bit her lip, the skin was mighty tender. "You stay here," he said.

"What? No!" She hurried to her knees. "I'm not going to sit here and wait while you… well, while you do whatever you do. If you have a plan, Mister Redfox, I'd like to hear it." She sucked in a breath when he swooped down and forced her to look at him.

"Now's not the time for yer backtalk," he growled. "You're lucky I'm even comin' back for ya."

"And just _why_ are you going to do that?" she asked. She tried pulling his hand away from her jaw. His grip was like steel.

"You want me to leave you here?" he snorted. "That can be arranged, lady."

Huffing, she settled for crossing her arms. "What if I followed you? That way, you wouldn't have to come back for me. I'll stay out of sight!" she said, quickly, after he looked dubious. "There are plenty of rocks for me to hide behind. I can do it!"

"You can't walk," he said, flatly. "You'll hurt yourself." He climbed to his feet. Mister Redfox paused and sighed, for he heard her scramble and skitter through the dirt. "I said to wait—" Turning, he pursed his lips. She stood, leaning against the rock. Her legs shook, and she put her weight into her heels. "What, you think I won't come back?" he scoffed. He nearly swallowed his tongue when she lowered her eyes. Well, damn him to the deep depths of the Zamarr. "Fine. Stay close, and don't make a sound."

They crept through the desert land, staying close to the ground behind the canyon rocks. The fastest route to the campsite was to slide down the sandy slopes. That method would yield two problems for them: Jose's men would be alerted to their presence by the plumes of sand and dust; and surely the librarian's feet would be rubbed raw and bloody. Mister Redfox chose the rocky ground, the ground full of small stones that most likely bit into her flesh. She was quiet—not a whimper, not a squeak, nothing. However, her breath would hitch, and he'd hunch his shoulders.

Red and orange clouds lit the purple sky by the time Mister Redfox signaled for the librarian to stop. He raised a finger to his lips. During the day, the desert was scorching. Anyone without an abundant supply of water was a dead man. Nighttime was a different story altogether. The wind picked up at night, whipping through the canyons and tossing sand and gravel and dirt about. At least they weren't in the southeastern part of the country where the wind battered the coastal towns of Lusin and Arev.

Miss McGarden didn't make a peep, save for her chattering teeth.

Mister Redfox crept to the edge of the rock they were hiding behind and tilted his head. They were at the outskirts of the excavation site. The area was depressed into the rock and sand, making for a good vantage point. Tents were erected, and Jose's men either sat in clusters, patrolled the grounds, or drank and sang and danced. Cargo trucks were parked on the eastern side of the site.

Miss McGarden tugged on his sleeve. "What's the plan?" she whispered.

"I'm thinkin'," he muttered. He clicked his tongue as she crawled next to him to peer into the camp.

There had to be at least a hundred men. The site was lit with lanterns, and the din of chatter and chit-chat echoed around them. Miss McGarden swallowed. "Please tell me you aren't going to try to sneak in," she breathed.

"No." He rubbed a hand over his jaw. This was either the best or worst idea he ever had. He hoped to ancient steel that none of the men currently in the camp were in attendance when the conference rooms went up in smoke and acid. "Stay here."

"What—" His scathing glare prompted her to bite her lip and stare at her lap. She offered a meek nod in understanding, and then he was gone.

* * *

Gajeel crept to the western edge of the campsite that was mostly deserted. Only a few men patrolled the area and watched the entrance of the ruined city. The entrance itself had taken a week to excavate, and it was depressed into the earth. Jose's mercenaries had to lay large boards down over the crumbled steps just to reach the mouth of Karma—at least, one of the mouths, now that he and the librarian effectively smashed open another entrance.

He supposed the entrance by the waterfalls was the urethra. Steel take his thoughts, he was starting to overthink like the librarian.

Exhaling, he nodded, and then jogged into the camp. "Oi!" His pace was brisk, and his voice was as sharp as a bark. "Everybody out, now! I need all of you out, _now!"_ The mercenaries scrambled from their fires and peered out of their tents.

"Is that Redfox?"

"What is he doing here?"

"Shouldn't he be with the others?"

"You think they found it yet?"

The mercenaries crowded around him. Some of the men had their cheeks smeared with shaving cream, others held flasks with their cheeks still flushed and jubilant, and others puffed cigars. All eyes were on Gajeel. Jose's prized possession had those lines crossing over his face, those fierce lines that only told one story: the man was not meant to be trifled with. "Listen up!" he barked. "One of the tunnels collapsed. Jose is trapped inside, so get your asses in gear. We'll need shovels, picks, rope, and torches."

"Oh, yeah?" one of the mercenaries asked, lazily motioning with his cigar. Panic slithered up Gajeel's spine. "How come he didn't send one of his Elements? Thought you were supposed to stay by Master's side no matter what."

Gajeel crossed his arms and inclined his head so those awful shadows hooded his features. His eyes blazed into the other mercenary's, and the men slowly stepped backward. "You wanted me to stay and count the casualties? Take a nice little tally? There are a lot of bodies down there. All I know is that Master's stuck, and I'm here to deliver."

Gajeel bared his teeth after the men stood there, staring at him as if he'd grown another head. "Need I remind you all that if your employer dies, you get nothing?" His voice dipped into a menacing octave, and that snapped the men to attention. They were a flurry of movement, tripping over each other and gathering supplies. The men ripped through the canvas flaps of their tents, tugged their boots on, and hurried to kick sand over the fires.

"Move it!" Gajeel snapped, shoving some men toward the entrance of the ruin. "This ain't a cake walk! Move your asses! Let's go, let's go, let's go!" At least a hundred pairs of feet trampled through the campsite, kicking up sand and dust. Gajeel jogged through the commotion, shouting and barking orders left and right. The mercenaries pushed carts loaded with supplies into Karma's entrance. A heavy weight settled in his gut. Most of these men hadn't been inside the ruin, and there was a good probability that not all the traps had been discovered.

It was highly possible that Gajeel was sending them to their deaths. The thought curdled his intestines.

Swallowing the bile building at the back of his throat, he swept through the dust to the western side of the site. The lot where the trucks were parked wasn't barricaded or gated, thank all-things metal. He quickened his stride, nearly sprinting regardless of how much his muscles screamed at him, and immediately began eyeing the trucks for a good pick.

A mercenary, no more than twenty years old, came barreling toward him. His youthful face was smudged with dirt, and his bright eyes were spooked. "Mister Redfox! Sir, Mister Redfox, sir!" The young man skidded to a stop, his gulp audible and visible as Gajeel pierced him with a critical eye. "Sir!" He saluted, and then dropped his hand. "Sir, what is happening, sir!"

Military, Gajeel decided. The boy had to have been military, or, rather, a recruit who hadn't passed his training. He had that green look about him, and Gajeel knew his fair share of greenhorns. He was Fioran, too, judging by his accent, and so _young,_ at least six years his junior. When Gajeel had been his age, he had been fueled by anger and hate, feelings that had led him around the world in search of answers.

Answers that Gajeel still did not have.

"Mister Redfox, sir?"

It was mind-boggling. He still had soft cheeks. Had Fiore lowered the age for the draft? The western part of the world was at war, yes, but not the _entirety_ of the world. Desierto was happily neutral in the western wars. Strange, Gajeel decided, for a Fioran militant to join Jose's band of thieves.

Later. He'd think it over later.

"Get inside the ruin," he said, at last. His stomach twisted at the thought of sending a mere boy to death's door. The whites of the mercenary's eyes almost consumed his irises.

This was necessary, he told himself. It was necessary. Gajeel repeated that mantra in his mind as he added, "We got a collapsed tunnel, and master's still in there." Gajeel motioned back toward the eastern half of the campsite.

"Is that how that happened, sir?" The mercenary pointed at his own forehead, and dumbly, Gajeel felt along his brow.

The bandages. He still had bandages dotted with dried blood.

"Sir! Are you hurt, sir?"

Grunting, Gajeel instead said, "We've got casualties. Don't just stand there lookin' at me; get going!"

"A-Are you sure, sir?" Gajeel glowered, and the boy swallowed and scrambled into a salute. "Yes, sir!" The mercenary saluted again, and if the moment was not so urgent, Gajeel would have pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sir, yes, sir!" Another salute, and then the mercenary was off like a rabbit chased by wolves.

" _Psst!"_

Gajeel turned his head side to side. Oh, that had to have been his imagination. He'd taken one too many clonks to his noggin, so surely this was just a delayed side effect.

" _Psst! Mister Redfox!"_

Oh, no. Of _course_ she wouldn't have listened to him. Huffing, he jogged through the lot to find the librarian leaning out of the driver-side window of a cargo truck. She waved him over and then ducked beneath the dashboard, as if suddenly realizing that she wasn't supposed to be there.

Mavis, Zeref, iron, steel, this woman would be the death of him. He rapped his knuckles against the driver door, and her Viathan-blue head peeked over the dashboard. "I said to wait," he growled.

"Yes," she agreed, "yes, that is true. But as I see it, Mister Redfox, we can sit here arguing, or we can hop to wherever it is you're dragging me before someone spots us."

Grumbling, he opened the door and pushed her into the passenger side of the bench. They slouched in the seat to keep out of sight. This was easy for Miss McGarden, but a mighty challenge for Mister Redfox's bulk. "You're a real pain, you know that," he started while he palmed the dashboard for keys. "Climbing into any truck, as if they all have enough fuel."

"Mister Redfox," she sighed with that smug air to her voice. Oh, why did he have to look at her. She looked like the goddamned cat that ate the goddamned canary while she dangled the key in front of him. He tried to swipe the key, and that only made her smile grow. "Mister Redfox. This is a Mercé-Ben LG3000, am I right? It can hold thirty-one-point-seven gallons of fuel—really, only thirty gallons, if you want the customer's opinion. I know the tank is full because the fuel bed," she jerked her thumb behind them toward the canvas-covered bed, "is touching the rear tires. No dipstick required, thank you very much."

"And provisions?" he snapped. "Did you think about the food or water?"

"They're in the back," she lilted, "in the bed. This truck came fully equipped."

He snatched the key and shoved it into the ignition.

He turned the key to ON, opened the throttle, and stepped on the starter. Nothing, not even a little rumble.

"Shit, _shit!"_ he hissed. "The starter's dead. I need to crank it." A long rod swept in front of his nose. He almost lost his nostrils.

"Then you crank it," she said, "and I'll adjust the ignition and spark advance."

Numbly, he took the crank, trying to piece together where exactly she found it, and how she even knew what a crank was. Then, with a curled lip, he said, "How do you know what a spark advance is?"

"I wasn't aware the parts of a vehicle were top secret information," she tutted.

"I wasn't aware that women were supposed to know how a vehicle worked," he countered. Her face scrunched into an angry pout. "You're real trouble, you know that?" Quickly, he checked to make sure that the lot was empty, and then hurried out of the vehicle. "You better not run me over."

"I'm not—"

He slammed the door and hurried to the front of the truck. Miss McGarden scooched into the driver seat. She flicked the key to OFF and closed the throttle. Then, just as a precaution, she checked the hand brake. _Even though he hadn't checked it before._

Mister Redfox yanked the choke from beneath the grill, and then set to work priming the engine. Miss McGarden poked her head out the window to hiss, "Are you using your right hand?"

He rolled his eyes and continued to crank the engine. One, two, three, four clockwise, semi-circles. He lifted a thumbs-up, and she turned the key to BAT, lifted the spark advance until it touched the steering wheel, and made sure the throttle was depressed just a tad. She leaned out the window again, yet before she could open her mouth, he spat, "I know I use my left hand now!"

She gave him a thumbs-up.

He gripped the fender with his right hand, and with his left, gave one swift crank. The cargo truck roared to life. Pulling the crank out, he snorted as the rumbles evened out into a quiet hum. This little Viathan knew her vehicles.

"I'm driving," he said, and pushed her back into the passenger seat. Pushing the hand brake forward, he stepped on the pedal, and the wheels began to roll. The truck lunged forward, forcing Miss McGarden into her seat. Dust plumed around them, and then the truck picked up speed so only the rear tires left clouds of sand.

The truck wasn't the fastest automobile; it wasn't sleek or slim and trim, but it could endure. It could endure so much, in fact, that when Mister Redfox steered them through a tent, the truck hardly slowed.

"I thought you said you could drive!" she shrieked. She shrank into the bench and gripped anything within reach. Unfortunately, that meant her fingers dug into his shoulder. He scowled at her.

"Either you sit there quietly, lady," he snarled, "or I toss you at full speed."

She knew she hadn't the strength to batter him—nor the heart to deal pain on anyone—and thus she settled for glaring murder at him. He shook his head. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Careful. Yer face might stay like that."

"Good," she said, "I hope it does."

For several minutes, it was quiet between them. The wheels cut through the dusty, rocky terrain, and occasionally she or Mister Redfox would bump around in their seats. Her arm bopped against his. Her glare deepened. He looked too pleased with himself, and if she didn't know any better, she'd bet her button-down that he was purposely driving over uneven parts of the canyon.

Pursing her lips, she turned her head to stare out the window. Soon, the canyons would open up into vast desert sands. It'd take hours, maybe a full day, before they reached any settlement. She couldn't survive a full day of silence. "You know," she began. He grunted, letting her know he was listening. "You know they're going to find out what you did."

"I bet they already know," he said. He sounded far too calm, and even looked too calm, she realized. "They can't do anything without Jose's permission. By the time they get to him, we'll be long gone."

"How do you even know he's still alive? Or your friend, the woman. Juvia, was that her name?"

His grip tightened on the steering wheel. He never recalled telling the librarian just who his friends were. The little chit was observant, she was. "She's alright. She made it. She's survived worse."

"And Jose?"

He smoothed his hand over his jaw. "He wouldn't bite the dust just because of some puffs of steam." There was another lull in the conversation. Miss McGarden tried to think how far Mister Redfox could drive with only a full tank of thirty gallons. He could drive several hundred miles with that amount of fuel. There were many waypoints in the desert for wary travelers. More than once, the small settlements proved useful during sandstorms. Beyond the waypoints, though, he could be going in any direction. Northeast to Oro, northwest to Viath, southeast to Lusin or Arev.

But he isn't going to Viath or Oro, Miss McGarden recalled.

"Did anyone ever tell you," he said. By Mavis, had his voice always been so loud and deep? "That you're an open book? It's like I can read your mind. What, you're done talkin' now?"

"Mister Redfox." His eyes shifted from how tired she sounded, as if she'd aged down to her bones. "Mister Redfox, where are you taking me?"

Oh, _oh,_ he was not going to bait her like this and then not utter a peep. That was the last straw. She tossed onto her side, showing him her shoulder, and burned her eyes through the window.

She would not turn around, not even if the ride suddenly became smoother. She would not look at him, even though he'd sighed. No, no, _no,_ Miss McGarden would not give him the satisfaction of raising her hopes and then crushing them like a dung beetle in the sand. She would not—

"Sakhrat," he announced, finally. "We're goin' to Sakhrat."

* * *

 **And then they drove into the sunset and lived happily ever after. The End.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **I am totally shitting you XD WE ARE FAR FROM FINISHED!**

 **...and a Mercé-Ben is the Earthland equivalent of a Mercedes-Benz. Teehee!**

 **As always, huge thank you to every reader, silent or otherwise, who has taken the time to check out my work. I really appreciate it, guys and gals, so thank you! :) I'm sorry I was so late in updating; I never meant for it to get this late. But I've had flu-like symptoms for a month (A MONTH), now. I still feel rotten, and I always have this funny taste in my mouth (ew, gross, we won't go there). I said Hell with it, it's almost '17 and I gotta update! So, here is the update XD**

 **Moving on from that, I would like to address something going on in the Fairy Tail fandom. I've written fanfiction in various fandoms (Assassin's Creed, Elder Scrolls, Dragon Age), and I've never had this problem in those fandoms before that I am experiencing in the Fairy Tail fandom. So, here is the current problem in the fandom that I have feelings about: fans are pressuring writers to portray characters a certain way, make characters do certain things, etc etc. These fans are messaging the authors and demanding that they change how their stories are written. It is bullshit. It is BULLSHIT. Here is the latest that some fans (not all fans are part of this problem, only a good handful, so please do not take offense if you aren't part of the problem. And if you are part of the problem, please tune in) are having an issue with: Gajeel referring to his darling Levy as "shrimp, shorty, shortstack, etc." I will not defend why authors write Gajeel like this. I will not explain why Gajeel in my story does not call Levy by name (yet!). I take only one side in this argument, and that is this: write your own story. Write your own story if you have an issue with how authors are portraying the characters. Don't like, don't read, is what I always say. And that is all.**

 **Now that we're done with that fun little rant (sorry, I have feelings about this), time to answer reviews :D**

 **JadeOccelot: Yeah, the veins healed Gajeel, but I'm not so sure if they healed Levy! ;) Yowch, she got burned!**

 **MoonbeamMadness: Thank you so much for the encouragement. I'll keep your advice in mind as I continue the story :) Thanks for sticking around, and I hope you enjoyed this new chapter!**

 **OziGirl16: Heehee, well I'm glad I have you all convinced that I know what I'm talking about XD Do you know how many videos and articles I had to research just to figure out how to crank-start a car? Oh my goodness, I had half a mind to call my uncle who has been a Ford employee for 50+ years just to get the scoop. Thanks for reading! :)**

 **AyaEisen: I'm excited for the romance, too! I've never written a romance between characters like Gajeel and Levy (though, I've written kinda similar, but not really), so I think it's going to be fun. I want to show their romance more than tell it, know what I mean? I think Gajeel would show his feelings in the small things, not outright tell her. That's my take. I dunno, I'm just excited for both the adventure and the humanity, emotional part of the story. Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed this chapter! :)**

 **Mewhee89: Oooo very cool guesses on what the trap was! Hope you were satisfied with what I wrote! (I mean, it's inspired by Indi Jones, so can you say... BOULDER? :D) Thanks for reading!**

 **deblovesdragon: I'm considering a glossary, but I'm still on the fence about this. I don't think it's important for my readers to know exactly what the foreign languages mean, so long as they understand the gist of what is being said. That being said, I will frequently repeat the common phrases (like F'inn), and I think readers can figure out the meanings. I dunno, still thinking about the glossary. And YESSS IT'S A TRAP!**

 **Painting Dandelions: I WATCHED SAHARA. Apart from Penelope Cruz's ehhhh acting, I adored the banter between McConaughey and his sidekick (I can't remember his name! AAACK!) I have yet to read the book, but I do feel much better approaching this story after watching the movie. Thanks for suggesting it! Hope you enjoyed this chapter :D**

 **BabygirlMari: Hi there! :D Thank you so much, I'm glad it feels like an old-schooled action, adventure story! Mission accomplished.**

 **levyredfoxx3: Yes yes, relationship is going to have much more progress made. I mean, it needs a lot more progress. Mehhh, they're still sort of put off by the other. This will be fixed in the future, of course :B**

 **xblood kittenx: Oy, no worries! Two chapters, three chapters, just take your time, pace yourself! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thanks for reading! :)**

 **Varentana: Eee, yes! Glad you like the story, and hope this chapter didn't disappoint :D**


	10. Men of Trades

"Sakhrat?" she asked. Her nose turned up, and her lip curled. "You're taking me to Sakhrat?" The poor excuse of a town was home to the lowest rung of Desierto's inhabitants: thieves, prostitutes, conmen, and mercenaries. As a scholar, Miss McGarden had no reason nor intention of ever visiting the "Sakhrat Slums," as the town was often called.

"No," he drawled, and his smirk was both visible and audible. "I ain't taking you to Sack Rat. I said _Sakhrat."_ He steered the truck over a bump that jostled her. "For someone so smart, yer pronunciation is shit."

She turned back to glaring out the window. Pursing her lips, she said, "I suppose that makes the most sense. First you kidnap me from Oro, then you drag me halfway through the desert, and now you're dragging me _again_ through the desert to some forsaken, ramshackle, crumbling, criminal-infested—"

"Oi," he rumbled, flicking his eyes toward her. "That's my home yer talkin' about, sweetheart."

"Oh," she snorted. "Well, that explains it. The world isn't that difficult to understand, after all." She squealed when her teeth clacked against her tongue. He drove over another bump for good measure.

"You've got a lot of opinions," he said. His brows were pulled together. "I'm startin' to think all you're really good at is running that mouth of yers."

"When I begin valuing a criminal's opinion, Mister Redfox," she said with a pleased lilt to her voice, "I'll send word to your dearly beloved Sakhrat." Her lips pursed in triumph after his response was mere silence.

And then she scowled.

"Sock Rot, huh? Never heard of it."

Miss McGarden shook her head and counted to five before speaking. "What makes you think _Sakhrat_ isn't the first place your master will look?" His silence prompted her to whirl in her seat and say, "Mister Redfox, if he finds me, then I'm as good as dead."

"Jose ain't gonna kill you," he said, sparing her a glance. "You're the only person in this damned country who knows all about Black Steel, and he needs that."

"That isn't true," she said. "You know about Black Steel." As expected, his eyes hardened and a scowl tugged at the corners of his mouth. His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel.

"He ain't gonna kill you," he said, finally.

"But he'll hurt me," she said, her voice dropping. She stared at the dashboard with furrowed brows. "He'll hurt me."

"Not if he can't find you."

She closed her eyes. "If I was looking for a shady character, Sakhrat would be the place to look."

"He won't look in Sakhrat."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause," Mister Redfox started. He jerked the wheel to the left to avoid a crack that would have lost him a tire. Her shoulder bumped into his. "'Cause word's gonna start spreadin' that I'm in Lusin. I know people who can make me disappear."

"An honest man wouldn't need to disappear," she mused to herself. Her mouth twitched after hearing him snort.

"Never said I was an honest man."

"Oh," she hummed, "and I wouldn't believe you if you had. Do you disappear often, Mister Redfox?"

He chuckled, then drawled, "I haven't _re_ appeared yet, lady." The cargo bed jostled when the rear-tires bit into the sand. The dry, rocky terrain of the canyon was behind them, and in front of them was the Voskor Desert.

Though much of Desierto was sand and ancient ruins, the sections of deserts had different names. _To honor the different territories of the past,_ scholars explained. The Voskor Desert, located in the middle of the country just north of the Kanash Gulf and between Oro, Sakhrat, and the ruins of Karma, was known for its harsh winds and unpredictable sandstorms. Further to the east was the H'Partut Dunes, a smaller desert closer to Bellum that was home to nomads who preferred to sleep under the stars. _It's what their ancestors did,_ scholars reasoned.

And if the scholars, wearing their Fioran suits and jackets with bowties tightly cinched at their necks, thought that the H'Partuti people were uncivilized gypsies who danced naked, save for tiger skins and jaguar coats wrapped about their waists, around tall fires to celebrate some feline god, well. They kept that out of their textbooks, and out of earshot of Miss McGarden's employer, who was of the H'Partut.

Though, Shagotte's Fioran manners had exceeded most of the scholars' expectations, for a H'Partuti, of course.

Miss McGarden slowly frowned. Her hand slid to the door handle.

"Either yer thinkin' of new words," he said, "or yer thinkin' about how to make my job even harder."

She huffed and crossed her arms. "I'm not—" Pausing, her frown deepened, and she twisted her lips. "Your 'job?'"

"How 'bout," he said, training his eyes on the endless sands ahead of them, "you make it easier by lettin' me know if anyone's expecting you."

"Expecting me?"

He grunted in affirmation. "Any appointments, anyone who would come looking for you? You've been gone for almost a month, now."

She laughed, a cold, hollow sound that lifted the hair on his arms. "No, no one's expecting me, Mister Redfox." Sucking in a breath, she let it out and stared at the plumes of sand outside of the window. In a quieter voice—so quiet that he almost didn't hear her over the hum of the engine—she said, "I'm on vacation."

"Huh?"

She leaned her head against the window, now that he was driving over sand and not rock. The chances of him running over a bump were slim to none, now. "I'm on vacation," she said again. She felt his eyes on her, and though she knew that she shouldn't be telling him _any_ of this, for he had treated her so poorly, the need to tell someone was overwhelming.

And so the words poured out of her mouth like rushing tides, all slurred and jumbled and knotted together.

"The museum's running out of government funding," she started. She rubbed her chafed wrists beneath her cuffs. The skin was too tender to touch. She settled with pulling on her fingers. "It's ridiculous, really. The Desertian government is supposed to fund all exhibits showcasing the country's history and natural oddities. But with the war between the Alliance countries and Pergrande, the government is saying that more funding needs to be allocated to the army 'just in case.'"

"No shit," he rumbled. His voice made her shoulders quake; for a moment, she'd forgotten he was less than two feet away from her. "Taxes have been higher than a Desertian trafficker's prostitutes." Miss McGarden frowned. "Everything's got a damned tax on it, now. Water, food, income—soon they're gonna tax our piss and shit."

After clearing her throat, she said, "I imagine the financial situations of the less fortunate communities have been difficult for the past few years."

He barked a laugh and tightened his fingers around the wheel. "'Less fortunate.' Yeah, lady. Don't think any tourists are lining up to see the slums."

"I didn't mean—"

"Sure, lady. I've seen where you come from: backyards, fences, sculptures, and everything nice Oro's got for the _more fortunate._ Must be nice to see the sunset from your window instead of concrete. Yeah, you didn't mean to offend anyone." She was quiet, and he smirked. "Hell, you can even go on vacation whenever your little heart pleases. Wanna tell me how your vacation fits into the government?"

"If you were done making assumptions," she snapped, "then maybe I'd have gotten to that already." She gathered a shuddering breath and shook her head. "So, what that means is that the museum is losing money— _has_ been losing money for years. We need a discovery, and not just more vases hidden in chambers beneath a city. We need something big, like an excavation, for more government funding.

"That's where my research comes in," she continued, despite his narrowed eyes. "I've been studying scripture carved into the bathhouses and temples in Old Viath. Most of the writing is written in Viathese and worships the Aquar, but there have been multiple passages written in a different language." She bit her lip and turned to him. Her chains jingled as she began gesturing with her hands. "During one of the explorations in Old Viath's libraries, I found a stone tablet etched with the same foreign language. The tablet also had Viathese etchings." She grasped his arm. He'd have shaken her off if not for the excitement in her eyes. "Do you know what that means, Mister Redfox?"

"They were translations," she beamed before he could answer. "Some Ferrian way back when translated their language into Viathese. After cross-referencing the tablet and the Viathan scripture in the temples, I found that they both referred to the same phrase over and over."

She used her index finger to draw imaginary symbols in the air, as if her mind could miraculously form solid letters. "Anac'Atelim," she said. "The Iron Dragon of Ferroc."

"You don't know that fer sure," he grumbled. "Coulda been just bad Viathan handwriting, or chicken-scratch. Or someone pulling a joke."

She pouted and shook her head again. "No," she insisted, "they were translations." The excitement—and was that admiration?—colored her eyes once more. "I found more tablets in Lusin, Arev, Yaqut, and a trader in the H'Partut showed me a tapestry detailing how iron and steel was forged in Karma. In Viath, I found these metal sheets, about the size of a tire, with numbers and dates etched in the corners."

He ground his teeth together.

"At first, I thought they were logs describing day-to-day activities of Karma and the construction of the aqueducts throughout the city, but oh Mister Redfox, I was so incredibly _wrong._ " Somehow, she began speaking quicker. "Yes, some of the sheets described the construction throughout the city, but some of them were incredibly personal. Using context clues, I believe that a man was the author of those sheets. I don't think I've found all of his etchings, but further into his story, he mentions a woman—a slave turned lover and wife—and I am almost entirely positive that the woman was Yvell, and the author was—"

"This is such garbage," he scowled. Her cheeks flushed. "You find some love letters, and your brain automatically think it's from Black Steel to his whore. Where's your proof, huh? Bet the museum wanted some evidence before you started making your goddamned conclusions." He shoved her hand off of his arm.

"You are infuriating," she hissed. "First of all, Yvell was not a whore."

"Oh, right," he snickered, "and what would you call a woman who purposely flashed some skin to tempt the two most powerful leaders in Desierto's history to go to war?" They lurched forward in their seats as he stepped harder on the pedal. He steered the cargo truck down a dune.

"She didn't tempt anyone."

"Right. 'Cause of her, Black Steel nearly lost the war between Ferroc and Van'i of the Nevar-Ilat." He waited for her denial, for her biting voice to snap at him. He glanced at her and found a sly grin curling her lips.

"You know your history, Mister Redfox," she mused.

"Tch." He stomped his foot on the pedal as he began ascending a dune. Their backs slammed against the seat. He didn't dare to look away from the windshield. "Just sayin' what all the kids' tales say about Karma. Don't go gettin' any ideas, lady."

Mister Redfox cursed himself. There wasn't a trace of anger in her expression, and she was fit to bursting with her smug satisfaction.

"But to answer your question," she said, graciously avoiding the subject of Black Steel and his bride, "to summarize how I'm on a 'vacation,' the museum never believed me. You were right: they needed proof, and I never seemed to have adequate evidence. I became a pest to the directors to the point where if they saw me in the museum, they'd scurry away like meerkats chased by hyenas." Finally, the truck leveled onto even sand.

Miss McGarden slumped in her seat. "So, to appease the directors, Shagotte told me to take some time off. 'Go to Viath, visit the spas, treat yourself,' she said. She paid for all expenses to Viath and gave me leave for two months. Can you believe that? The directors were so disgusted by me that I had to disappear for two _months!"_ She crossed her arms and huffed. "I don't know what I did that was so terribly annoying."

Mister Redfox snorted. He could name a few things.

"So I decided: if I was being shipped to Viath, then I was going to make the most of it. I'd explore the old palace again and see if there was anything I missed." She nodded in affirmation.

"I bet the directors woulda loved to extend your 'vacation' after hearing you went snooping without a permit," he sneered.

"I know people in charge of the security for the places off-limits to tourists," she lightly mused. "They would have gotten me in. Jet and Droy have done it before."

Mister Redfox couldn't help but to wonder if there was a way for the people _he_ knew to give Miss Researcher a longer vacation.

"That night," she said, quietly, "when you broke into my apartment. I was supposed to leave in the morning." She sighed and tipped her head back. "I guess I was never meant to go on vacation. Serves me right for taking advantage of my employer, huh?"

He figured her incurable need to talk was like a trough filling with water: she could only take so much silence before it all bubbled over, and then her mouth went running and the gums went flapping. Her silence was a blessing, and he spent every precious second grating over what she'd said. The chit knew much more about Ferroc's history than he'd thought, and she had seen and touched artifacts from forty-thousand years ago.

His knuckles turned white around the wheel. He'd spent the better part of a decade trying to find just one thing, and he'd turned up empty-handed at every corner. Yet this girl, this loudmouthed _researcher,_ had no idea what she was searching for and had a basket of stories to tell, all wrapped up in a pretty blue Viathan bow.

In the silence, Mister Redfox found some comfort. _Good,_ he thought. _Good that the museum ain't listenin' to her._ So long as the directors never believed her, Karma would remain a myth, and this chatterbox wouldn't have anything to gloat over.

His piercings pushed together in a frown. For years, she'd been mocked, and yet she was still so impassioned about researching the forgotten kingdom. Though it baffled him, he couldn't help but to hold an ounce of respect for her resolution.

Just an ounce, though.

* * *

The librarian had dozed off about an hour into the silence. The faintest touches of pink blotted the sky, and in a few more hours, the sun would set. They were making good time and should reach Sakhrat before dawn of the following morning.

Mister Redfox grunted when he felt something bump against him. Peeling his eyes away from the endless sand, he glanced down to find her head slumped against his shoulder. Grumbling, he nudged her off. She sat straight in her seat, and then rolled back to his shoulder. Clicking his tongue, he pushed her. Thankfully, she leaned against the passenger window. He scowled at the stain on his shoulder.

She blinked herself awake and turned to look at him, all bleary-eyed and bruised. Then, clarity returned, and she grasped her gut. "Stop the truck," she breathed.

"What?" Frowning, he pushed the vehicle to go faster. "I ain't stopping the truck."

"By Mavis, stop the truck!" Her shriek pierced his eardrum, and with a snarl, he grabbed her arm.

"The hell—"

"If you don't stop right _now,_ Mister Redfox, I will do duty number two on this seat!" His mouth hung open in confusion, and after several seconds, comprehension smacked him in the face. Eyes bulging, he slammed his foot on the brake. The tires spat sand into the air, and she didn't wait until the truck came to a complete stop before shoving herself out of the passenger door.

He cranked the hand brake down and threw open the door. With a snarl stretched across his mug, he swung out of the truck. His knees buckled as soon as his feet touched the ground. He skidded through the sand and grabbed the fender for balance. Inside the truck, though it had been hot enough for sweat to dampen his shirt, he hadn't felt dizzy or thirsty.

Now, outside and trying to stand up, he realized how much he craved a long drink and something to eat. It must have been at least a day since the last time he had eaten anything.

Smacking his lips together, Mister Redfox closed his eyes for a moment. He pulled himself up and frowned after hearing grunts come from the other side of the truck. By steel, if the little nuisance was trying to run away into the vast desert, he was going to give her a reason to run. Using the hood of the truck as leverage, he grappled his way to the passenger side.

He gaped and quickly turned his eyes down to his feet. She had crawled a few feet away from the truck. Her khakis were pulled down, and she was squatting in the sand. The red strings he had seen dripping into the sand made him grateful that he'd been born as male. A distinct odor filled the air. He covered his nose with his shemagh.

"Coulda said you had to shit," was his muffled commentary to what he'd just witnessed.

"Could you give me some privacy!" she managed to shout amidst her grunts.

He trudged back to his side of the truck and leaned against the door. The engine still hummed with life, but not loud enough to gurgle out the librarian's strained groans. "Shouldn't have eaten that snake," he said.

"This is the aftermath of menstruation!" she said. "I can't help it!"

Mister Redfox weighed his options. He could tell her to hurry up with her business, but the chit actually listening to him seemed unlikely. They needed to get their asses and the truck back in gear if they wanted to make it to Sakhrat. Then there was still the matter of his parched throat and rumbling stomach. Sighing, he chose to hold his peace and tore off a length of his sleeve. Balling the fabric up, he tossed it over his shoulder, then staggered to the back of the truck. He tore open the flaps and hopped into the bed.

There was a bulging burlap sack with strings that looked to be barely holding on for dear life. Tearing open the bag, Mister Redfox snatched a canteen, uncorked it, and threw his head back.

Nothing. Not even a drop.

He shook the canteen and then chucked it at the floor. There were more canteens in the sack, and each one was just the same as the first: empty. His fingers dug into the curved edges, and with a snarl, he stormed out of the truck. She was right where he left her, squatting in the sand. Using the torn piece of his button-down, she wiped at her backside, and then hurried to pull her khakis back up after spotting him.

"I don't know what's worse," he barked. Her shoulders quaked at the jagged gravel in his words. She fumbled backward, narrowly avoiding squashing her palm in her excrement. "This," he threw the canteen in the runny pile of droppings, "or the shit you just pulled. 'The provisions are in the back. This truck came fully equipped' my ass." Sweat trickled down his neck and back, making his shirt and hair stick to him. His body shook with pants, and his tongue darted out to wet his cracked lips.

Had he anything to drink, the action may have proven useful.

"You didn't even check the truck, did you?" He took a step closer. The heat made his shadow waver. Her eyes lowered. "Yeah, I thought so, lady. You go talkin' about all this stuff you know, but you don't know shit." His shoulders trembled, and just when he thought he'd be able to breathe his anger out, she had to open her mouth and say something.

"I thought the sack was full."

"Yeah, it was full, alright," he said. He hauled her up by her wrist, his rough fingers narrowly avoiding the burns on her palm, and shoved her toward the truck. "Full of nothing, just like yer damned head." He pursed his lips when she made to turn around. The solution was to shove her again.

"But I'm not done—"

"Yes. You are." She still fought him, and without warning, he latched his hands under her arms and tossed her into her seat. She yelped and most likely had something to say—since that was all she was good for: talking—and he promptly slammed the door in her face.

Mister Redfox settled himself in his seat. His shoulders were raised. The wheels turned and kicked up dust until they found enough traction. The engine couldn't drown out his schooled breaths.

"I'm sorr—"

"Shut," he growled, "your goddamned mouth."

"I thought—"

"What the hell did I just say!" One hand gripped the wheel, while the other gripped her sleeve. It tore at her shoulder, but he still pulled her close enough so that she couldn't escape the fury in his eyes. "I tell you to sit your skinny ass in the canyon so that I can find a truck. No, whaddya do instead? You pick a truck that has no food, no water—it has shit, that's what it has. And you wanna talk all goddamned high and mighty, like yer better or somethin'. Well lemme tell you something, lady: I ain't surprised that your museum's had enough of you. I'm close to leavin' yer ass out here."

"Then why don't you," she said without missing a beat. He didn't answer; he only shoved her hard enough for her elbow to ram against the passenger door. The impact jarred her funny-bone. She bit her lip, rubbed the tingling joint, and chanced looking at Mister Redfox. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and his tongue slipped over his dry lips again.

He was parched, and most likely hungry. "I'm sorry," she said, without any venom or irritation. She was sincere, the damned broad. "I was just trying to help."

"Tch." He shook his head and yanked at his shemagh. "Damned women should stay in their kitchens."

"That wasn't necessary," she said.

"Neither was your shit."

Her silence could only stretch so far until her Viathan curiosity reigned ruler supreme. For several moments, Miss McGarden pulled on her fingers and stared at her bruised and burned feet. Mister Redfox tried to ignore her nervous fidgeting. Finally, she sucked in a breath and asked, quietly like the Viathan turtle she was, "Are you alright?"

Anger creased into lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

"Mister Redfox," she tried again, "are you… well? You aren't going to start hallucinating, are you? You haven't had anything to drink for hours I suppose, and that isn't good at all in this heat. If you don't have water soon, you'll start getting dizzy and seeing things—"

He jerked the wheel to the left. The tires skid through the sand, struggling to find traction as the vehicle lurched to the side. Miss McGarden, thrown against the passenger door, squealed and grabbed onto the dashboard. "Mister Redfox—"

"One more word out of your mouth," he said, spearing her with blazing eyes as he righted the truck, "and I'll tie yer tongue into a knot and pin yer lips back." Blessed steel, the chit listened to him. Mister Redfox waited a few more cautious moments before exhaling in relief.

Unbeknownst to him, Miss McGarden ducked her chin into her collarbone. She sucked her lips into her mouth to hide her smile. What he'd just described was an ancient form of Ferrian torture: traitors would have slits sliced into their tongue, and then the slits would be braided. Pins would nail their lips to their cheeks, and then the forsaken souls would be chained to a post outside until the desert heat would shrivel them whole. There have been accounts, Miss McGarden recalled, detailing how their tongues would be pruned, cracked, and white, fit for carrion birds to pluck.

The skeletons would be left to bleach and to serve as a warning for all conquered lands and foreign enemies.

Miss McGarden shook her head. That _haskara_ didn't even know when he was revealing his tells.

* * *

The stars and moon in the inky blue sky knew he would not make it to Sakhrat before the sun would rip into the world in the morning. No, not with the headache pounding at his skull, his tongue darting out, his chapped lips flapping, and not with his eyes blinking too often. Miss McGarden openly watched him, and so long as she was quiet, he said nothing.

He needed water.

She herself was thirsty, yet she didn't dare tell him this. If she needed to cough from how dry her throat was, she suppressed the urge by distracting herself. She had many questions, after all, and it would do her good to categorize them in her mind for future reference. However, there was one observation she could not help but to make: Mister Redfox knew how to navigate without a compass or map.

Indeed, she had not questioned him on his sense of direction. He knew where Jose's camp was located, and so when they made their reckless escape earlier that day, he had to know which direction to steer the truck. Now, though, with the hundreds of stars dotting the inky blue sky, Miss McGarden found herself respecting him. Mister Redfox frequently ducked his head to peek below the windshield; he searched for the bright light of Polaris, and he followed the heaven's torch.

She had a comment tucked away in her brain. The Viathans were known for their interest and complex ideas regarding astronomy and astrology, after all. And here he was relying on Polaris, or _Hyusis_ in Viathese, and _N'aaj_ in Ferrian. The Viathans believed _Hyusis_ was the Aquar's tear—for Her tears gave the Earth water after Her lover banished Her to only show at night as a round, eggshell white mass in the sky. All the stars were Her tears, in fact, but _Hyusis_ was the first to be shed after Her lover betrayed Her.

And then there were the Ferrians. They swore that the _N'aaj_ was the Anac'Atelim's nighttime form. Always present, regardless of day or night. The stars were His armies. Come morning, His likeness would be forged into a fiery mass in the heavens.

Miss McGarden kept these tidbits to herself. She didn't want her tongue braided.

She glanced away from him, and then frowned. Leaning closer to the windshield, she twisted her mouth in thought. At the edge of the endless baked Voskor Desert was a structure. Mister Redfox forced the truck even faster. That couldn't have been Sakhrat; it was not possible for him to reach the impoverished town this soon. She racked her brain. There were multiple waypoints between cities providing shelter for travelers, but which one they were approaching was beyond her.

"What—"

"Mawaa," he answered. He cleared his throat, and then coughs rattled his shoulders and chest. Good, the librarian saw the outpost, too; that meant his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

Unless the most annoying woman in history was pulling his leg.

"Mawaa?" she repeated. Then she clamped her mouth shut, hands flying to her face, and made herself as small as possible in her seat. "Sorry," she murmured behind her hands.

He rolled his eyes and slowed the truck into a crawl. Mawaa was a waypoint a few hours from Sakhrat. Had he anything in his belly—and something to wet his whistle—he'd be able to make the last stretch. Thanks to _her,_ however, that was not going to happen.

Unlike its neighboring town, Mawaa was all polished limestone and red clay. The whitewashed walls of the town were trimmed with blue canopies and banners, and acacias full of green needles lined the gates. Torches hung near the gates. In daylight, no doubt the town would be gleaming.

He drove the truck beside a fenced lot. The men at the gates stirred from their posts. While it was unusual for travelers to take refuge in the town so late at night, it wasn't unheard of. The guards, dressed in lightweight robes, watched them.

Mister Redfox pushed the hand brake down and killed the engine. His ears rang from the piercing silence that followed; they'd spent hours with the backdrop of hums, whirs, and rumbles. He smacked his lips. "You stay here," he croaked. "I'll be back with supplies."

"There won't be any stalls or shops open at this hour," she said with a frown. "We have no money, either."

"Never said I was gonna buy anything." He opened his door and then turned back to her. "Stay here. I mean it."

She nodded, and the Viathan turtle retreated into her shell. He closed the door. His gait was wobbly, and she peered over the dashboard to watch him. He gestured and nodded his head, and the guards ushered him into the town.

Miss McGarden huffed. He was a snarly viper to boot when it came to handling her, but apparently Mister Redfox could be a charmer when the occasion called for it. Even though his clothes were still singed and full of holes.

Sighing, she settled in her seat and rubbed her sore ankles. She'd stay, just as he told her to.

* * *

Mawaa was a town with rich history, as were many of Desierto's smaller urban locations. Throughout Desierto's more violent history, Mawaa had survived battles, wars, pillages, and savage sandstorms. During Black Steel's reign, the town was a hub used to sell slaves of conquered nations. The central location of Mawaa was ideal for determining property that would be sold into slavery, or those chained peoples who would be left to bleach in the desert.

Only the sturdy survived the walks to Mawaa.

Now, though, the town was a slave to ridiculous Fioran marketing strategies. The buildings were large and box-like, as was most of Desierto's traditional architecture, but the atmosphere was largely Fioran. Blue banners, blue trimmings, carpets with blue patterns, leafy trees, trimmed shrubs, flowers, fences—Mawaa couldn't just be a refuge; it had to _feel_ like one. And in the courtyard was a statue of a Viathese mythological creature, the Pegasus, rearing and kicking his forelegs into the air. The only place bluer than Mawaa was Viath.

Gajeel snorted. Give a man a bed, roof, meal, and water, and he was good to go. It was too much for his tastes, and he could only imagine the unnecessary expenses the government added to their balance sheets to finance such extravagance.

The librarian was correct: all the stores were closed, save for the tap rooms. Laughter and idle chatter rang throughout the town, as patrons enjoyed a late drink on cozy verandas and romantic balconies. Somewhere, a musician plucked the mellow strings of an oud.

He prowled through the spacious streets, trying not to trudge through the sand, and passed a well-lit rest. Servers dressed in fancy silk robes and dainty slippers poured drinks, all of which were probably alcoholic. In Sakhrat, the girls would have had much more leg showing. Had he not looked like he'd just survived the traps of an ancient forgotten kingdom, Gajeel would have seduced a drink or two out of the serving girl.

That was out of the question.

He turned down a side alley. Above him, clothes lines zigged and zagged between the buildings. Closer to the gates was a pen for horses and camels. He'd take what he needed from the closed shops and stalls, but first things first: water.

There weren't many torches here, and there were no guards in sight. After all, who were they to stop a traveler from deciding to tack up and leave? Still, Gajeel swept his eyes across the pen as a precaution.

 _Precaution._ All-things metal, he was starting to take a page from the librarian's book.

He was quiet, despite his wobbling legs, as he unlatched the gate and entered the pen. Beneath the roofing of the stables were troughs filled with water. He couldn't push past the curious, albeit annoyed, heads of camels fast enough.

He guzzled the water by the handful. Splashing the back of his neck, dunking his head in. He gripped the edge of the trough and sighed. Water dripped from his nose and chin. He reached for another handful.

Torchlight twinkled against the water, and something soft padded behind him. Taking in a deep breath, for the chit was no doubt testing his limits on purpose, he braced for impact.

Someone cleared their throat. That was not the librarian. Turning, Gajeel frowned to find five men flanking him, all of their hands casually resting on their pistols inside of their waistcoats. "What have we here? What do we make of a man bent over a trough this late at night?" one of the men mused aloud. His accent reeked of Fiore.

 _Shit._

"Not like the camels need much of it," Mister Redfox said, gesturing at the water. "What's it to you?"

They smirked at each other before one of them pulled their pistol out. "You know, Desertian law says it's legal to shoot a thief. Is that what you are? A thief in the night?"

Scowling, he answered, "Well it ain't mornin'." Mister Redfox reached for his revolver.

"Calm down, men," a suave voice drawled from behind the group. The lackeys parted to reveal a portly man adorned in a Fioran suit and polished leather shoes that reflected the firelight, regardless of all the sand and dust. "There's no need for that. Give this gentleman some breathing room."

Mister Redfox curled his lip. He didn't have the head for this pansy.

The rotund man stopped a handful of feet in front of Mister Redfox. "I believe this squabble can be solved peacefully, if you are willing to listen, man."

Snorting, Mister Redfox shot his men a doubtful look. "Depends how trigger-happy their fingers are." The portly man nodded and raised a hand. His lackeys holstered their guns. Sliding his revolver back into his vest, Mister Redfox said, "Didn't catch a name from you, either."

"Nor did I," the suave man answered. Fine, then. Mister Redfox could play his game. "Consider me the 'ace' of Mawaa, my good man."

"Ace?" Mister Redfox frowned. He grimaced when the stout man twirled and bowed before him. Mister Redfox wasn't sure how many more theatrics he could tolerate from this circus reject.

"The overseer, the man in charge, the boss. Call me what you like. But you," he drawled, shooting him a two-fingered salute, "are a man of the world, are you not? You have a smell about you."

Ignoring that comment, for Mister Redfox hadn't bathed in about a week—and he himself thought he was ripe around the pits and crotch—he growled, "Well? My ears ain't stuffed. I'm listenin'."

He nodded and swept his hair back. "I am a man of opportunity. A businessman, you may say, open to negotiations and trades." He looked Mister Redfox up and down. "You've nothing to trade, I take it?"

"And if I did?"

"Well," he sighed, and straightened the lapels of his coat, "then you'd be paid the present value of all goods, and this night never happened. You have nothing, not even in your truck?"

"What truck," Mister Redfox said with a straight face.

The businessman laughed and clasped his hands together. "Oh, my good man," he announced. As if this action were a cue, three men marched into the pen, dragging a struggling and kicking librarian between them. They had her— _his—_ revolver policed. Mister Redfox's brow creased as he gauged the situation. These three new men were pretty boys, and their suits didn't boast the telltale signs of muscle. The other five men, however, seemed to be the brawn of the operation, and they had pistols.

 _Shit!_

The three pansies dropped the librarian at their feet. Mister Redfox was surprised her neck didn't snap from how fast she looked between her captors until her gaze finally settled on him. Those big hazel eyes were spooked. Quickly, she scurried and hid behind him.

"What is this?" the businessman asked. Interest quirked his brow, and he swept his hair back in a grand gesture. "A surprise? A reunion?" His lackeys nodded in agreement, and a calculating gleam streaked across the businessman's eyes as he watched the librarian grip Mister Redfox's vest. "Oh yes, oh yes!"

Mister Redfox grimaced. This clown needed to stop _now._ His head felt like a log that had one too many axes taken to it.

"Man," he began, "what about this lovely creature? A precious desert flower—"

"An oasis," one of the three pretty boys chirped.

"A songbird," another chimed.

"A diamond," the third and—thank steel—final one chattered.

Mister Redfox had several other choice words he preferred to describe her as.

The businessman nodded. "A lovely young lady is worth much to those who know the right people. Our offer stands, my good man: the little bird behind you for what has been promised."

"What," the librarian hissed. She looked back and forth between Mister Redfox and the other men. "I am a person!" she insisted, waving a shackled fist at them. "I'm not a piece of property to be sold—"

"How much?"

"What!" She gaped at Mister Redfox and shook her head. The other men had encircled them; the odds of fleeing were not in her favor. She pounded her fists against Mister Redfox's biceps in a weak barrage. "What did you just say!"

"I said," he repeated, not paying her any mind when she started yanking on his vest, "how much? For the girl?"

The librarian's assault halted in shock. The businessman smiled in pleased triumph. "One-hundred Fioran jewels."

Mister Redfox spat. "That's a week's tab at a hotel. Six-hundred."

"Are you really selling me—"

"Three-hundred," the businessman said.

"Six."

"Three-hundred fifty."

" _Six."_

"I'm not for sale—you can't—!"

"Five-hundred is my last offer."

"Deal." Mister Redfox locked an arm around her waist and walked her over to the men. She fought against him, but his hands were stronger than her skinny arms.

" _Fi'nnek haskara! Mesh'ish unlat pa'halel undz dzi'ir rhepshat mo harri fer'tir de!"_ She snarled and cursed him, flinging her fists against his studded arm. Her curses teetered and fell into every language she knew. By Mavis, she was cursing him in every country's native tongue. He wasn't sure how she knew so many slurs. Women shouldn't know that many expletives.

"You have made a fine bargain, my good man," the businessman said as he thumbed through his wallet. Mister Redfox eyed the fat wallet. The businessman produced the crisp notes and offered them to Mister Redfox between two fingers. Gajeel paused, staring at the money, and hope seared its way up Miss McGarden's stomach.

Mister Redfox, still with a thoughtful frown on his face, said, "Did ya a favor by chaining her up. Should be another fifty jewel, don't ya think?"

She shrieked and started pounding his arm with renewed vigor.

"Five-hundred fifty," the businessman agreed. He folded another bill into his hand. His lackeys took the librarian off Mister Redfox's hands, and then the two men shook. "A pleasure doing business with you, my good man. Oh yes, oh yes!"

Shoving the bills in his shirt pocket, Mister Redfox nodded and said, loud enough for the librarian to hear, "Broad was a pain in my ass, anyway. Talks too much for a woman." He was taken aback by the glare she sent him over her shoulder. The raw anger there was fiercer than her tiny fists, and damn him, there was betrayal burning in those hazel eyes. He scowled.

"Indeed, I am sure," the businessman chuckled. "As promised: the money, and this night never happened."

"Just one more thing," Mister Redfox said, walking over to the pansies trying to restrain the screaming and kicking researcher. "Gotta make sure the goods ain't damaged." Ignoring the confused looks the pretty boys gave him, he gripped the librarian by her shoulders and crushed his mouth against hers.

It lasted for only a few seconds, but for each of them, she was utterly shell-shocked and braindead. He released her with a pop, leaving her scabbed lips parted and plump, and nipped her jaw.

 _"Get his wallet,"_ he breathed into her ear.

* * *

 **A/N: ...And I'm back! Hello, everyone! Anyone out there still reading? Ah, sorry for such a late update. University is very demanding, and most days I'm so, so so so so tired and after I'm done with homework, club activities, job hunting, interviews, all I do is sleep. I'm such a grandma.**

 **But hey! A new chapter :D Any guesses as to whom the businessman is? XD**

 **...And now that I've had some sleep, I'll extend this author's note. First and foremost, I'd like to address a reviewer of this chapter, Yotsvrru: you can find your lemons at the grocery store. Should be less than three bucks. But for real, get out of here if that's all you came for. Did you even read the chapter? Go look elsewhere if that's all you want from a fanfiction.**

 **Anyways. I've been picking at this chapter since January; it took me 3 months to finally be satisfied with it. I'm not thrilled with the chapter, but if I look at it any longer my head is going to explode. Aside from that, my job search is still on. I'm applying everywhere in the US and in Japan (I speak Japanese), but so far nothing. Sigh. I just need a job after graduation that actually has to do with my major. I'm terrified of graduating and having 0 income when Penn State starts sending me reminders of my student loans that need to be paid. Oh, the dreary life of a college student.**

 **And SHAMELESS PLUG right here: one of my best friends has launched a YouTube channel. She has dwarfism, so her channel has a lot to do with her day-to-day life and how people treat her differently because she has dwarfism. If you are interested in checking out her videos, just search for Jaz Brown on YouTube.**

 **I'll answer reviews now!**

 **JadeOccelot: Yes, his bloodline has something to do with it :) And yeah, Gajeel won't start referring to Levy by her first name until, well... he actually cares enough to know her first name. Teehee! Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy this chapter too!**

 **MoonbeamMadness: Hey! Hope this chapter answered some questions (and of course made you wonder more). Thanks for reading and sticking around! :)**

 **Painting Dandelions: Yes yes yes thank you for noticing why I don't have them refer to each other by first names. This chapter isn't as action-packed as the last one, but I hope it doesn't disappoint! :)**

 **levyredfoxx3: Oh gosh you're going to squeal at the ending of this one aren't you XD And yeah, he does care from a human to human sort of way, but he isn't entirely interested in her wellbeing. For whatever purpose he has in mind for her, he needs her to stay alive and well.**

 **xblood kittenx: FIX MY DOOR! XD Thanks for sticking around and reading!**

 **Shortycake: Thank you so much! I'm glad you're enjoying it :)**

 **Usweasil: ...but will they stay looking up? Thanks for reading! :)**

 **OziGirl16: Hi! Hope this chapter didn't disappoint! :)**

 **MissGhoulie: Oh I cannot tell you how many fics botch Gajeel's characterization. There is room for author interpretation, but making him _too_ nice is just... not him. He has his shining moments, but he can still be an asshole. And besides, he is a man with reservations. He isn't one of the Trimens. And heehee yes, Levy isn't exactly ready to go strutting down the runway, and he's being a jerk about it. But he has his moments! Haha, thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed the chapter! :)**

 **Guest: Thank you! Hope you enjoyed this chapter :)**

 **lynnekelly87: Hi! Thank you, I appreciate your feedback and the time you took to read my story. Hope you stick around, and that you enjoyed this chapter! :)**


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